Nichole turns and checks herself again in the mirror. She grins wide, her teeth are gleaming. Makeup adds just enough color without being obvious. A few stray hairs pushed back into place and the look is perfect.
She turns. Back is perfect. Turns again. Front is ... wrinkled! Oh, no, the look is ruined!
Probably happened when she was bending over putting on her shoes. The black ones - satin, with six inch stiletto heels and a single strap around the ankle.
She pushes at the wrinkles hoping to smooth them out and only making them worse.
She checks the clock hoping that there is enough time left to steam them out.
No luck. No time.
She had worked so hard on this look and now it's ruined.
There is nothing she can do; she is just going to have to go to work looking wrinkled.
She turns around again admiring the way the heels make her legs look.
The music in the other room ends, the crowd whistles and claps. She hears the first few notes of her opening number and then her name.
She wraps a long black silk scarf around her neck, checks her g-string and pasties, pats the wrinkles on her naked stomach and hurries from the dressing room and onto the stage where a single spotlight shines on a gleaming silver pole.
(Chuckles) You fooled me wonderfully. The irony of the wrinkle is magnificent. This one hit the mark for me.
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