Голодные игры

           Ilookatthecoldwhitewallsandfloorandresisttheimpulsetoretrievemyrobe.ButthisCinna,mystylist,willsurelymakemeremoveitatonce.Insteadmyhandsgotomyhairdo,theoneareaofmybodymyprepteamhadbeentoldtoleavealone.Myfingersstrokethesilkybraidsmymothersocarefullyarranged.Mymother.Ileftherbluedressandshoesonthefloorofmytraincar,neverthinkingaboutretrievingthem,oftryingtoholdontoapieceofher,ofhome.NowIwishIhad.

           ThedooropensandayoungmanwhomustbeCinnaenters.I’mtakenabackbyhownormalhelooks.Mostofthestyliststheyinterviewontelevisionaresodyed,stenciled,andsurgicallyalteredthey’regrotesque.ButCinna’sclose-croppedhairappearstobeitsnaturalshadeofbrown.He’sinasimpleblackshirtandpants.Theonlyconcessiontoself-alterationseemstobemetallicgoldeyelinerthathasbeenappliedwithalighthand.Itbringsouttheflecksofgoldinhisgreeneyes.And,despitemydisgustwiththeCapitolandtheirhideousfashions,Ican’thelpthinkinghowattractiveitlooks.

           "Hello,Katniss.I’mCinna,yourstylist,"hesaysinaquietvoicesomewhatlackingintheCapitol’saffectations.

           "Hello,"Iventurecautiously.

           "Justgivemeamoment,allright?"heasks.Hewalksaroundmynakedbody,nottouchingme,buttakingineveryinchofitwithhiseyes.Iresisttheimpulsetocrossmyarmsovermychest."Whodidyourhair?"

           "Mymother,"Isay.

           "It’sbeautiful.Classicreally.Andinalmostperfectbalancewithyourprofile.