Dr. Stud

When we grow up, we think fairy tales are just that, children’s stories, but the truth is, fairy tales come from our lives. Don’t we all have a wicked witch in our midst at one time or another, even if she’s doesn’t have green skin or isn’t decked out in a pointy black hat? Maybe we don’t even notice for a while, since we’re fooled by the fact that she drives a Ferrari instead of riding a straw broom.

And don’t we all have our temptations, the dark roads into murky forests where we know we shouldn’t go, but against all odds, that’s exactly where we find ourselves? Magic is all around us — it just looks different these days than we ever were led to expect, so we miss it.

Perhaps the most surprising and exciting thing: when two handsome, strong, sexy, hard beasts are involved, fairy tales are anything but children’s stories.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Read on to find out what happened to me once upon a time…

Chapter 24

Bella

This is how I like to spend my morning. Sitting here in my robe with a cappuccino in one hand, breathing in. The small table in my bedroom is strewn with lipsticks and eyeliner pencils, pots of shadow in too many hues to count. The browser is open to my stats page and I watch, almost in real time, as the clicks are recalculated on my latest article.

120,000 shares. 96,000 tweets.

This is good. This is really good. And it's a nice way to start my morning, because this article, entitled 19 Ways Your Mascara Isn't Doing You Any Favors, is the last one of many. Too many. No more makeup bargain comparisons, no more lists of sex positions. No more “most embarrassing moments” or “fun and crazy facts about vintage hairstyles.” I’m finally through with all of that.

I’m going back to serious personal journalism with a wave of loyal followers and a healthy bank account. It’s not just my passion, it was supposed to be my job. After I won that Reinert Fellowship, everybody wanted me. I could have had my pick of jobs in publishing, writing essays or screenplays, even. But I came to work with my bestie from middle school, and social media came along, turning everything on its head. The whole industry.

I should be grateful I still have a job — and in some ways I am, definitely — but I hate these fluff pieces. I hate that Hannah insists that I keep writing them, even more. But even I have to admit that they sure do get great stats. I’ve got two million Instagram and Twitter followers and a half million subscribers on the TurnPost main site. That makes me “influential,” they tell me.

I think it’s weird. None of those people realize that 90% of my job is sitting at home in my jammies talking to my computer. They wouldn’t even give me a second look if they could see me in real time right now. Unless it was a look back to make sure the crazy lady wasn’t following them.

I sit here for another minute, nearly done with my makeup but thinking I could stick around to see the stats click over to 121,000 shares. That could totally happen. Then I’ll be able to leave for my meeting, already feeling pretty good about myself.

I really needed this one to hit the mark, and it did, but it was kind of a surprise. You wouldn't think that mascara was something people felt deeply enough about to share, but it turns out this is just one of those unspoken frustrations every woman has. Tubes that run out too fast, layers that don't thicken up. Black smudges under your eyes just as you're talking to somebody you really want to connect with. You're talking to them, and they are really meeting your eyes. Really connecting, really listening to you. Or so you think, until you catch a glimpse of yourself in the tiny mirror next to your monitor in your cubicle. Thumb-shaped smudges of black ring your eyes that must have accumulated while you weren't paying attention. This conversation you're having, this deep conversation with all the connection and whatnot? No. They were just looking at you and your makeup malfunction. It’s a disaster.

That’s how mascara can let you down. There are also eighteen other ways, if you’re counting.

Somehow, this dumb listicle turned into a statement about how no matter what we try to do, someone else's failure is always jumping in the middle to mess everything up. I wonder why...

So I struck a nerve, which is every writer’s goal, right? You don't always know what is going to happen, but sometimes some effortless observation will plop down onto the page and other people will let you know that they really needed to hear that.

Like here, in hard numbers: 120,560 shares on Facebook. That's how many people felt like their mascara — just that one humble accessory — had really screwed up their lives too, come to think of it.

Come on, 120,561.

But it's getting pretty late. I need to get going and I'm not getting up to 121,000 quite fast enough, so I set the ceramic mug down on the desk and slip out of my robe, absentmindedly picking my Calvin Klein sheath dress off the chair and pulling it carefully over my newly-waxed legs. As I zip up the side zipper, I see the stat tick over to 120,802. Oh, this could happen.

Come on. Just one hundred and ninety-eight more people who love me, and I can get out the door with confidence. Go grab the future by the balls, like they say.

Today's the day! No more listicles! No more lifestyle pieces!

I execute a little fist pump in the mirror, twisting to one side and then the other, checking out my figure. Does this look like the dress one wears to one's triumphant comeback meeting? I think it does.

My long brown hair falls in even waves over my shoulders, acceptably shiny and healthy looking. Some of the Kevin Murphy products that I was sent in the mail really helped with my split ends. Despite what my mother always told me, with that bossy quaver in her voice, the expensive stuff really does do a better job.

I walk around my queen-size bed, pulling the pink satin comforter neatly back up to the pillows. There's no sense in leaving a bed unmade, I suppose. I may not have anyone to impress, and heaven knows nobody but I will even see it, but it's just something I do for myself.

But as I catch myself out of the corner of my eye in the mirror, my un-shaped locks are maybe too immature for this meeting. I need something a little more kick ass. Something between sexy head librarian and lady pilot.

With a decisive twist and a few bobby pins, I roll my hair up into a high bun and pin it, tucking the dark ends deep into the shape. I figure this hairstyle will survive most of the day, too, even if it's a little breezy outside. I keep my article’s stats in the corner of my eye as I line my lips in a serious shade of beigey-mauve and then fill in with a sophisticated red from a small sable brush.

Another nice thing about writing lifestyle pieces is all the free, high-end makeup they've sent me. Every brand from Urban Decay to MAC to Bvlgari would just magically appear at my front door with charming little notes suggesting I drop their names into my next list. Preferably in a flattering way.

And I'll miss that, I truly will. Swag is pretty compelling. But the chance to get back to writing, really writing, is too good to pass

up. There are a hundred thousand kids fresh out of college every week, it seems. Or, they probably didn't even go to college… they probably just started blogs when they were in middle school… and they could do this job better than I do. I know that. I feel them chasing me down like some kind of invisible swarm. At any moment, they could totally overtake me, drowning me with the sheer chatty, hip, trendsetting volume of them. I would drown under the Instagram filter of the moment, hashtagged right out of existence.