Chapter 4 - Chapter Two — Chandré

There's nothing like a show.

I've done hair and makeup for theatre, TV, film, adverts, award shows. You name it. Over the last twelve years I've done it. The thrill of getting somebody ready to shine never gets old. It's in the air already as I make my way backstage for Naledi Zikalala's celebrity fashion show. I took the job blind, so eager to work with Naledi in any capacity that I never even asked which charity the show was raising for. In the hotel lobby I passed a sign for Isibani House, which I'm fairly sure works with survivors of domestic violence, a cause I know sits close to her cousin Puleng's heart, and so to Naledi's as well.

Makeshift stations are set up backstage with small mirrors and chairs. Stylists heft bags stuffed with makeup and the tools of the beauty trade. It's been a while since I worked a fashion show, celebrity or otherwise, and I'd forgotten how tall everyone is. I'm one metre seventy-five, so no small woman, but I'm dwarfed by the Amazons and giants milling around the area marked off for hair and makeup.

"Chandré!"

I turn my head towards my name. An attractive woman with dark curly hair and golden-brown skin comes over, dressed head to toe in black — T-shirt and jeans — like most of the other stylists here. Like me.

"Catarina, hey." I accept her quick hug and return the genuine smile. "Thanks for thinking of me."