suzanna-kollinz-acliq-oyunlari-1-hisse-eng

“We promise! You know, now that we’ve gotten rid of all
the hair and filth, you’re not horrible at all!” says Flavius encouragingly.
“Let’s call Cinna!”
They dart out of the room. It’s hard to hate my prep team.
They’re such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know
they’re sincerely trying to help me.
I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse
to retrieve my robe. But this Cinna, my stylist, will surely
make me remove it at once. Instead my hands go to my
hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told
to leave alone. My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother
so carefully arranged. My mother. I left her blue dress and
shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about retrieving
them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home.
Now I wish I had.
The door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters.
I’m taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists
they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and
surgically altered they’re grotesque. But Cinna’s closecropped
hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He’s in
a simple black shirt and pants. The only concession to selfalteration
seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied
with a light hand. It brings out the flecks of gold in his
green eyes. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their
hideous fashions, I can’t help thinking how attractive it looks.
“Hello, Katniss. I’m Cinna, your stylist,” he says in a quiet
voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol’s affectations.
“Hello,” I venture cautiously.
63