When she furnishes her home, one of the most crucial elements of the décor is the drapery. Curtains, blinds, shades, whatever her preference may be. Something to keep the sun out and genuineness in. She spends hours in the furniture store, debating. Lavender or violet? Flowers or stripes? How will this look from outside the house? What will the neighbors think? She spends hundreds of dollars on the curtains, laying them out, installing them, making them perfect. They must look flawless from the outside. That’s what everyone will see.
When she’s home, she can hide behind the long, thick blankets of cloth that hang from every opening, concealing her from the world. But when she’s outside, she has to make her own curtains. The first layer is her hair. It reeks of hairspray and product, and it is fried to a crisp from chronically straightening every piece into its place. Not a single hair can be free to go its own way; it must remain in line. Just above her eyelids lies a heavy sheet of bangs to bury her expressions. The next curtain is the makeup. Her cheeks are caked with powder and cream to veil her natural skin, and her sad eyes droop under the weight of black mascara and eyeliner. The final curtain she wears is the costume. A fitted pink top clings to her skin, alongside hundred-dollar skinny jeans and a gold bracelet. Her skin is soaked in designer perfume, to disguise the odor of artificiality.
But me? I like to keep my curtains open. On my windows lay delicate, white sheets of fabric swept to the side to unveil the inner beauty of my home. Come in, they say. Take a peek. I look out my bedroom window and see the sunshine peeking in through the gap in the drapes. It illuminates my room and my truth shines out for the world to see. Maybe, gently, I can peel back her curtains.