Fashion is a demanding mistress.

Six hours a day, walking up and down, two collective hours spent putting on disgusting paint, drying, teasing, waxing hair to perfection. An hour picking out what to wear, only to have it stripped off, and another hour wasted in waiting for a stylist to put together the ‘finishing touches’.

Mindless.

A whole day spent on photographing the ideal form, beaming, smiling, smirking, glaring- faces hurt, and fingers tire from snapping the everlasting button. Poses start to look the same, the clock seems to slow down to an interminable crawl, and the day just seems to drag on forever, and ever, like the outstretched catwalk.

Endless.

A whole life thrown away for the sake of beauty, amidst whispers, ugly rumors that spread lies about weight, about hair, about events that never happened, scandals spread for the sake of scandal. Whispers that carve scars, rumors that ignite hatred, gossip that enflames into vengeance, backstabbing. Revenge.

Heartless.