Diary of an Ugly Duckling by Karyn Langhorne

with a single thin strap over one
    shoulder and full-length arm on the other was say-
    ing. She stretched a pair of what seemed to Audra to
    be perfectly acceptable gray sweatpants toward the
    camera, while gesturing to several other pairs in the
    closet behind her. “This is all she wears! Sweatpants!”
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    Karyn Langhorne
    and the slender woman shook her straight, blonde
    locks in disgust.
    “But they’re comfortable!” Another woman
    stepped into the frame, clutching the sweatpants de-
    fensively. And of course, she wore a pair of dark
    blue sweats, matched with a faded orange T-shirt.
    Her dark hair was tied back in a long, frizzy pony-
    tail. She looked just fine to Audra. Just your average-
    looking white girl, the sort of woman Audra might
    see on the subway or pass on the street a thousand
    times in a typical New York day. Unlike her tarted-
    up friend, who looked like something off a televi-
    sion commercial or a movie set.
    “Just because I don’t dress like you doesn’t mean I
    look bad,” the average-looking girl was saying, and
    Audra found herself nodding her head in absolute
    agreement.
    “Listen, girlfriend,” a masculine voice lisped,
    snatching the sweatpants so violently, Audra felt a
    deep sympathy for the poor girl whose wardrobe
    was being savaged. “Sweats have their time and
    place,” he announced, like some kind of authority,
    and to punctuate that point, the words kenny close,
    master stylist appeared on the screen beneath him
    as he continued. “If you’re cleaning your apartment,
    you wear sweatpants. If you’re at the gym in winter,
    you wear sweatpants. After that . . .” and he tossed
    the sweats into a waiting garbage can that clearly
    had been placed in the room just for that purpose.
    The dark-haired owner of said pants gasped in
    horror. Then to Audra’s surprise the fashion man
    yanked the remaining pants out of the drawer and
    tossed them into the trash with glee.
    DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
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    “You can keep the ones you have on,” he finished,
    slapping his hands together like he’d just finished a
    particularly distasteful chore, while the brown-
    haired girl fairly wept with dismay. “Don’t worry,
    honey,” Kenny Close Master Stylist offered comfort-
    ingly. “When we’re done with you, you’ll have for-
    gotten all about sweatpants, I swear. We’re gonna
    give you a hot new look and have men lining up out-
    side your door!”
    Then the program cut to a promotion for the next
    segment, through which Audra learned that the
    name of the program was Recreate Me , and that after
    this program ended, a show called Style Spy prom-
    ised to update the looks of unsuspecting passersby,
    and that both were part of Makeover Madness
    Weekend on the Beautify! Channel.
    “Pretty Up with Beautify!” a pleasant female
    voice suggested in a tone that mixed encouragement
    with command. Audra could almost imagine the
    words “or else” being added to the tag line.
    Pretty Up . . . by any means necessary . That’s what
    Penny Bradshaw had advised. Pretty Up . . . her
    mother was always nagging. Lose weight, change your
    hair—then the boys will like you . . .
    “Are your looks ruining your life? Are you tired
    of being the “ugly girl,” the “plain Jane?” a calm fe-
    male voice asked from the television screen, star-
    tling Audra’s attention back to the box. But there
    were no graphics, no stylish pictures or products.
    Instead, the screen was filled with the elegant image
    of swans, floating calm and serene on a quiet lake. It
    was mesmerizing in its stillness and beauty.
    “We can help. Accepting audition tapes now for
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    Karyn Langhorne
    Ugly Duckling , the Beautify! Channel’s ultimate
    makeover show. Call us at 888-UGLY DUCK for de-
    tails, or visit our Web site at BeautifyChannel.com.
    Hurry, tapes must be postmarked by Monday, April
    second.”
    Ugly Duckling. It was like the stupid ad was
    talking to her, recounting the night’s failures.