She looked into the mirror speculatively, past the reflection of the peeling green wall. Standard Indian features, nothing spectacular, “Nothing that a tint wont improve !” she mocked. Thank God she’d been spared her mother’s snub nose. From the shop a glossy pout, for sure, and long curving eyelashes. The forehead was a tad too broad, but now she’d stop hiding it behind a jaunty cut, instead let her tresses ripple down her back, medusa-like. A determined chin that firmed when she was defiant or angry- she must stop being so transparent. “This will have to go” she said, pulling the demure neckline of the cheap cotton print a good inch below the v of cleavage, tugging the dress so tight she could hardly breathe. “Not bad”, she admitted, clinically examining first one angle, then another. Arms next. Tinkling bangles. Or chunky silver, like in those tattered Vogue backissues she’d hoarded off wayside secondhand bookstalls. No more full or three quarter sleeves. Slender limbs she had, slender limbs she’d show. Minis, or micro micro minis, just the minimum.She had replaced her rather pedestrian name with something that sounded musical and soft. Her laugh now pealed prettily just with a hint of promise. Blahniks, or till she got there pointy tender toed heels from the street that went tick tack toe, turned heads.For that was the entire point. “Play it again, Sam, she said softly with a smile.