In the bathroom, where Elle ducked to check her Chanel “Pink-Alert” lipstick between classes, she was surprised to encounter a crowd of mirror-peerers. Typically, while there were lines for the Xerox machine and the laser printers, the path to the bathroom mirror was always free of law students.
Claire was struggling with her headband. Elle watched her tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, noting that the headband did nothing to disguise the fact that Claire had hair the texture of a Brillo pad. Once she conquered the headband, Claire pulled her white turtleneck snug and fixed her glasses.
Elle tried to muscle into a space in front of the mirror to apply lip liner. Meanwhile, Claire complained to an unidentified person in the bathroom stall.
“Today is yearbook picture day. I can’t believe I forgot! This is the picture that follows you forever,” Claire whined to the stall dweller.
Dissatisfied with the work she had done on her headband, Claire finally announced that she “simply was not ready.” She was going to ask the registrar if she could make a special trip over to the studio and be photographed there.
“Why don’t you just send over your portfolio?” Elle couldn’t help but inquire.
“Portfolio?”
“Everybody in California has a portfolio, Claire.” Elle smacked her lips and blotted her pink smile against the back of her hand.
Claire rolled her eyes. Elle had once overheard Claire tell Sarah that it was a “constant torment” to her that while she had sat up nights amid a dozen coffee cups reworking her honors thesis “to satisfy some crusty, pedantic old adviser, Elle had been waving at the homecoming crowd from the back of a convertible with a crown on her head.”
The way Claire saw it, Elle figured, was that it was just simply unfair that she had worked for a prestigious degree from Harvard only to wind up with the same postgrad credentials as a fruity bimbo from The University of Spoiled Children. So every Monday, just to annoy Claire, Elle waited until halfway through class to tap Claire on the shoulder and announce: “Only seven and a half hours until Ally McBeal!”
“Do they want a full body or a head shot?” she now asked Claire’s worried reflection. “Because if it’s full body, I’ll just send my ad series for Perfect Tan.” Elle grinned and shrugged at Claire.
“Perfect Tan. Perfect Barbie,” Elle heard Claire mutter venomously.