get to understand your face shape, knowing this helps you understand what will flatter you and what won't. will traditional bangs flatter me or is a side bang better? what blush placement will flatter me? what glasses shape will flatter me etc.
HOT TIP : if u still don't know your face shape, you can take a handheld mirror and hold it up so you see ur face in it. and then with a dry erase marker trace around ur face and see which shape it resembles, i learnt this hack from a youtube video!...💬🎀
now that you know your face shape, do some research! find out ur celebrity face shape twin, how to apply your blush and contour in the most flattering way, find out which hairstyles you could try etc. some other things i recommend knowing are your undertones, hair texture etc.
KEEP YOUR TEETH WHITE ;
the guru nanda whitening strips are literally $10 for a pack of fourteen! i use one a week and brush my teeth with a toothpaste with some sort of whitening ingredient in it, and my teeth SPARKLE. teeth are so essential to a face card because they indicate hygiene. i love the guru nanda whitening strips because the crest one i used to use left my teeth SO sensitive.
since the guru nanda one is more natural based, it doesn't destroy my enamel and it's AMAZING. some more things to keep in mind when whitening ur teeth, I DONT WANNA SEE LEMON JUICE AND BAKING SODA ANYWHERE NEAR YOUR TEETH. that's horrible for you, ask literally any dentist.
KEEP YOUR EYEBROWS CLEAN ;
now that you know your face shape, find out which eyebrow shape suits you the best. do not under estimate how much your eyebrows impact your facecard. but just as a rule of thumb, keeping your brows clean and neat is guaranteed to look nice on literally everybody. i'll insert a chart down below to help the girlies out.
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The first I heard of it was a tweet from a music blogger I followed, a man whose taste I generally respected, who posted a short two sentences: “Anyone else feel like their Spotify Wrapped is… wrong? Algorithm’s glitching this year. #SpotifyWrappedLies.”
I scrolled past with a dismissive snort. That's ridiculous, of course. The algorithm was a mirror, a record, cold and precise. It didn’t have feelings; it was just data.
Then, my close friend Courtney texted me. Her message was accompanied by a flurry of exasperated emojis.
“OMG, Christina, my Wrapped is a mess,” she wrote. “It says my top artist is some country singer I listened to once as a joke for like five minutes tops at Jesse’s party. This thing is so broken 🙄🙅♀️😩”
I texted back, “I’ll have to check mine out. Brb.”
I was curled up in my favorite armchair, a chunky-knit blanket pulled over my legs, a well-loved novel resting on my knee. The intricate lyricism of the latest Japanese Breakfast album whispered from the speakers of my headphones; the perfect soundtrack for a chilly December evening. This was my aesthetic. This was me. Thoughtful, a little moody, discerning, maybe a smidge of angst. My music was a curated collection of authenticity, private playlists free from any tracks I deemed too saccharine or superficial.
“My Wrapped will be fine, I’m sure. It’s basically the same every year,” I muttered to myself, a smirk playing on my lips. I opened the Spotify app, my thumb hovering over the brightly colored Wrapped banner. This was a yearly ritual I genuinely enjoyed. A digital affirmation of my identity. I already knew what I’d see: a parade of indie darlings and folk poets. Phoebe Bridgers, Father John Misty, The National, maybe some early Bon Iver for nostalgia’s sake. I tapped the screen.
The interface loaded with its usual burst of celebratory animation. “Ready to see your 2025 wrapped?” it asked. I nodded at my phone, automatically. “Let’s go.”
The first card displayed my top genre. I leaned forward, ready to see “Indie Rock” or “Folk” in clear, satisfying letters.
POP.
The word blinked back at me, a bold font against a polka dotted background. It looked vulgar. Wrong.
I laughed out loud, a short, sharp sound in my quiet apartment. “Okay, so it is a glitch. A weird one.” I swiped to the next card.
“Your Top Artist of 2025 is…”
This would fix it. Adrianne Lenker’s name would appear, or Phoebe Bridgers, probably both, a corrective to this bizarre “POP” nonsense.
The screen dissolved and a new image loaded. It was a photo of a gorgeous blonde, all glossy lips and shimmering eyeshadow, blowing a kiss in her signature bodysuit. The name “Sabrina Carpenter” materialized underneath in that same bold font.
I stared. My brain refused to process the information. It was like seeing a picture of a stranger labeled as your mother. The cognitive dissonance was a physical jolt.
“No,” I said, my voice firm. “No, that’s not right.”
I swiped again, faster now, my nerves getting to me. Olivia Rodrigo. Ariana Grande. Gracie Abrams. Renee Rapp. My top five artists. A lineup of purely mainstream pop. This had to be some kind of joke. This was the kind of music I openly derided as “manufactured,” “bubblegum,” and even “bimbo pop.” Music for people who didn’t want to think, just feel a cheap, fleeting thrill. Gracie was the only one on that list that I could say I’d listened to a bit, but still not enough to crack my top five!
A hot flush of embarrassment crept up my neck, as if someone had exposed a deeply shameful secret. This was a mistake. Some kind of algorithmic error. My thumb moved on its own, swiping through more of the report, frantically needing to find the card that said “Just Kidding!” before revealing my real, tasteful list.
But the report continued, each card delivering a deeper betrayal.
“You spent 6,843 minutes with Sabrina!” a cheerful message chirped. “That’s more than 90% of her listeners in your city!”
When? When??? I wracked my brain. I remembered playing her new album once, as a morbid curiosity, while cleaning the bathroom. I’d half-listened, critiquing the production in my head. That was it. Forty-five minutes, if that.
“Your anthem of the summer was ‘Please, Please, Please’ by Sabrina Carpenter!”
A memory, faint and hazy, surfaced. Driving with the windows down on a blistering July day. A pop beat, infectious and light. My fingers, painted an uncharacteristic pink, tapping on the steering wheel. My head nodding along, almost imperceptibly. But no. I would’ve switched it off. I was sure of it. I’d put on a podcast instead.
“You’re a top fan! You played "Espresso" 227 times.”
The number was painfully specific, and damning. A sense of uneasy dread began to mix with the confusion. Two hundred and twenty-seven times. You don’t do that by accident. You don’t do that ironically.
I fired off a quick text to Courtney. “You were absolutely right. Completely glitched for me too.”
As I stared at the number, another memory unlocked. Not a hazy one, but sharp and clear. Me, in the gym, wireless earbuds in, sweat dripping down my temples. The pulsing, driving beat of “Espresso” fueling my reps, a giddy smile on my face as I mouthed the lyrics, “I’m working late, ‘cause I’m a singer…” I felt a ghost of that energy now, a little zip of excitement in my chest.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the false memory. That wasn’t me. I listened to atmospheric post-rock at the gym. I…
Another flash. Singing at the top of my lungs in the shower, my voice echoing off the tiles, performing a dramatic, soapy rendition of Olivia Rodrigo’s “Vampire.” The steam, the energy, the sheer fun of it.
My anxious grip on my phone loosened. The conviction that this was a mistake was melting away, replaced by a strange, warm sense of certainty. Of course I’d listened to it. Why would I lie to myself? This music was… good. It was fun. It made me happy. Short n’ Sweet and Guts were basically the soundtrack for my commute, and Man’s Best Friend slotted right into that mix on repeat when it came out. I remembered eagerly awaiting the album drop at the end of August.
I looked up from the screen and caught my reflection in the dark windowpane. My face, usually framed by my natural, loosely curled brown hair, seemed different. My hair looked… smoother. Shinier. As I watched, a few subtle highlights, caramel blonde, seemed to weave themselves through the strands near my face. I blinked, and my eyes seemed brighter, a touch more wide-eyed.
A giddy laugh escaped my lips, and it sounded different. Higher. Lighter. It wasn’t my usual measured, cynical chuckle. It was a giggle. A bubbly, effervescent sound.
The Wrapped report continued. My music “Club” was Club Serotonin - too perfect. I’m all about being happy. My “Listening Age” was 21, naturally. I smiled along to Sabrina’s video message. God, her blonde hair is totally hashtag goals.
“Oh my god,” I giggled again, the words feeling new in my mouth. “Maybe I am, like, a top fan!”
I pushed the blanket off and stood up, feeling strangely restless. For Melancholy Brunettes (& Sad Women) was still playing quietly from my headphones, its somber melodies now feeling slow, dreary, and deeply boring.
“Ugh, what was I thinking listening to this?” I said to the empty room, my voice taking on a new cadence, peppier, with an upward lilt at the end of my sentences. I skipped over to my bluetooth speaker and connected my phone. With a few taps, I pulled up my “On Repeat” playlist. It was, of course, a non-stop party of pop perfection. I hit shuffle.
The opening synth chords of a Renee Rapp song filled the apartment, loud and confident. A jolt of pure energy shot through me. My hips started swaying automatically, a loose, rolling motion that felt innate, natural. I caught my reflection again in the glass of a picture frame. My posture was different. My shoulders were back, my back slightly arched. I was… popping my hip.
I looked down at my clothes. My typical laidback uniform: an oversized flannel shirt, baggy ripped jeans, thick wool socks. They suddenly felt frumpy, shapeless, dull. I felt a powerful urge to be brighter, tighter, shinier. I practically danced to my bedroom, cranking up the volume on my phone so that the pop beat blasting from the speaker followed me down the hall.
I threw open my closet doors and stared at my racks of clothes. All the muted tones, the earthy colors, the practical fabrics. I knew it was all mine, but suddenly it felt like I was looking at someone else’s closet. My eyes darted to a single, forgotten item shoved in the back - a tiny, sparkly halter top I’d bought for a themed party years ago and never worn again.
That, I thought, is so cute. So me.
I pulled off the flannel shirt and let it drop to the floor without a second thought. I wriggled into the sparkly top. It was tight, hugging curves I suddenly seemed more aware of. I shimmied out of my jeans and found a pair of faux leather pants that I don't think had ever seen the light of day. I slipped them on. They felt amazing. I looked in the full-length mirror.
A total stranger stared back, but she was fabulous. The transformation was accelerating. My hair was now unmistakably blonde, falling in soft, sleek waves around my shoulders. My face seemed softer, my lips fuller and glossier without me having even done a thing. My eyes, once sharp and analytical, now sparkled with a vacant, cheerful light. I felt an overwhelming need for makeup.
I dove into my makeup bag, tossing out my matte brown lipsticks and neutral eyeshadows. I needed glitter. I needed highlighter. I needed a lip gloss that looked like totally wet and kissable. I started applying everything with an expertise I didn’t know I possessed, blending shimmering pink shadows onto my lids, painting my lips a juicy, glossy pink.
The mental shift was the most profound. The nagging voice in my head that analyzed, criticized, and overthought everything—the voice that would have been screaming about this whole situation being a horrific violation of something or other—was just… gone. In its place was a pleasant, sunny hum, perfectly synchronized to the beats still pumping from the speaker. Thoughts came simple and bright, usually one at a time, like bubbles rising to the surface.
I look so hot.
This song is fire.
I need to go dancing.
I turned up the music, loud enough to feel the bass in my chest. I started dancing for real, not just a subtle sway but a full-body performance. I shook my hips, I tossed my hair, I raised my arms over my head and twirled. I felt amazing. Free. I wasn’t worrying about the meaning of the lyrics; I was just feeling the vibes. The beat told my body what to do, and I happily obeyed.
My phone buzzed on the bed. It was Courtney, following up.
“So? Your Wrapped? Yours is messed up too? What did it say?”
I picked my phone up, typing back with frantic, excited thumbs, my long, now-manicured nails clicking on the screen.
“OMG Court!!!!! Mine is actually SO ACCURATE!!!!!! 😍😍🔥🔥🔥”
I added a string of heart-eye and fire emojis. I didn't normally do that, but it felt right.
“It’s literally me!!! Sabrina Carpenter is my QUEEN I listened to Espresso like a million times!!!!!! We HAVE to go see her when she tours again!!!!!”
Three blinking dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Then Courtney’s response came.
“…Christina? Is that you?”
I giggled and texted back. “Duh! Last I checked! Who else would I be? LOL! You were so wrong before, Spotify is totally on point this year!”
I put the phone down, not waiting for her reply. I had to listen to the new Kesha album. All the way through. Right now.
I spent the next hour deep-diving into my Wrapped, each statistic a delightful little affirmation. Apparently I was a “recruiter” role in my “club”. I beamed. It was so true! I was bubbly and loved sharing my fave songs with all of my friends! I pulled up my "Top Songs of 2025” mix again on my phone to check how many followers it had, all the while dancing around my apartment, enjoying the feel of my favorite halter top against the bouncy curves of my tits.
The indie and folk music I’d spent years collecting felt like a dusty relic from a past life, a life that seemed complicated and boring and frankly, exhausting. Why would anyone want to listen to music that made them feel sad? Or think about complex metaphors? That was, like, so deep and weird. Pop music was simple. It was about feeling good. It was about looking hot and having fun. And it was, without a doubt, so totally my vibe.
The next morning, I woke up with a new kind of energy. I practically bounced out of bed, threw on a bright pink workout set, and plugged in my headphones. My morning routine needed a soundtrack. As I made my coffee, Sabrina Carpenter sang Espresso to me for the two-hundred-and-twenty-eighth time. Gawd, I loved her music so much. Short and sweet and sexy, just like me.
In the car, I rolled down the windows and blasted Olivia Rodrigo, singing at the top of my lungs without a care for who heard me. At the gym, my workout was powered by pure pop energy. I caught a guy looking at me as I shook my hips on the elliptical, and I just gave him a bright, giggly smile. He smiled back.
I ran into Courtney, looking SO cute, as I left my fave coffee shop later that day. Her eyes widened as I approached, my steps light and practically prancing. I was wearing a fluffy jacket, short shorts, and knee-high boots. My old boring wardrobe seemed to have disappeared overnight, but I sure wasn’t gonna complain.
“Christina?” she said, her voice laced with disbelief.
“Hey, girlie!” I squealed, air-kissing near her cheek. “Oh my god, I love your hair. Is that a new gloss? It’s so shiny.”
She just stared at me, her mouth slightly agape. “What… what happened to you?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, tilting my head. I glanced down and examined my outfit. The question made no sense. “Ooh, I just got my nails done.” That must be what she meant! I wiggled my glittery fingers at her. “Aren’t they sooo adorable?”
“No… I mean yes! I mean, your… your music,” she stammered, lowering her voice. “Your Wrapped. You were so weird about it yesterday. First you said it was glitched like mine, then you started talking like you were bodysnatched or something. Now all of… this? You’re kinda freaking me out.”
I let out a peal of laughter. “Oh, that! I was just being silly. I was totally overthinking it. Of course it’s accurate! It’s, like, data. Duh. Totally not that deep!” I leaned in conspiratorially. “Literally just between us besties, I think I was just, like, scared to admit how much I love a good pop song, you know? But life’s too short to not jam to the good stuff!”
I saw the confusion and dawning horror in her eyes, but I couldn’t connect to it. Her vibe was totally harshing my mellow.
“Anyways!” I said, my tone bright. “Enjoy your coffee or whatever, but I gotta run! I totally found a literal gold mine of the coolest unreleased Sabrina tracks online earlier, and I wanna see if I can, like, figure out how to load them on my phone! Love ya, mean it, laters!”
I breezed past the cafe doors, my boots clicking a cheerful tempo on the pavement as I went. The December air was brisk, but the sun was shining and a pop song was playing in my head. My body was wiggling and jiggling to a rhythm that felt as essential as my own heartbeat. I was happy. I was hot. The serotonin was seriously flowing.
I had no idea what everyone was talking about. Spotify Wrapped was totally accurate this year.
The needle wasn't even in the room yet, but Holly's palms were already sweating. She pressed them flat against the crinkling paper of the examination table, staring at the motivational poster of a kitten hanging from a branch with the words "Hang in There!" in cheerful cursive. The irony made her teeth ache.
She'd practiced breathing exercises in the car—four counts in, six counts out—but now her lungs seemed to have forgotten how air worked entirely. A tray clattered in the hallway and Holly flinched so hard her elbow slipped off the table.
The nurse strode in like she was walking onto a runway, her white uniform hugging every impossible curve, her dark brown hair coiled into a perfect bun that somehow looked effortless. "Just a quick little poke today," she said, flashing teeth so white they almost glowed. Holly suddenly became acutely aware of her own frayed cuticles, the coffee stain on her sleeve, the way her left sock had slipped halfway down her ankle.
“Are you really a nurse? You look like a model!” The words blurted out before Holly could stop them, her face instantly flushing red-hot. The nurse laughed—a rich, throaty sound that made the fluorescent lights overhead seem warmer—and snapped a pair of latex gloves onto her hands with practiced precision. “Name’s Vivian,” she said, tilting her head slightly as she adjusted her name tag, which read *Vivian, RN* in bold letters. “And yeah, I get that a lot. Patients either flirt with me or faint on me—no in-between.”
Vivian rolled up Holly's sleeve with quick, professional fingers, her touch unexpectedly warm despite the clinical setting. The alcohol swab was cold against Holly's skin, sending a shiver up her spine. "Deep breath," Vivian murmured, and before Holly could tense up, the needle slid in—sharp, quick, painless. "All done," Vivian said, pressing a cotton ball against the spot with her thumb. Holly blinked. That was it?
"I'll be back in ten minutes to check for any allergic reactions," Vivian added, peeling off her gloves with a snap. "But between you and me? You're not the swooning type." She winked, tossing the used needle into the sharps container like she was scoring a three-pointer. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Holly alone with the kitten poster and the lingering scent of antiseptic and Vivian's faint vanilla perfume.
Holly shifted on the crinkling paper, suddenly hyper-aware of her own heartbeat. A slow warmth spread from her chest up her neck—not the prickly, panicky heat of anxiety, but something deeper, more insistent. Her fingers flew to her throat. Was this normal? Was she swelling up? Her pulse hammered against her fingertips, rapid but steady. The logical part of her brain knew it was just adrenaline, but the rest of her was too busy cataloging every twinge, every phantom itch.
Then, the impossible happened. The angry red acne along her jawline—the one she’d been battling with salicylic acid and prayers—began to smooth out, fading into unblemished skin before her very eyes. Her hair, usually a frizzy mess from cheap conditioner and stress, suddenly felt silkier, individual strands slipping through her fingers like liquid. Holly gasped, twisting to catch her reflection in the metal cabinet across the room. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered. Something was *wrong*. Or maybe—terrifyingly—something was *right*.
Her breasts ached next, a deep, throbbing pressure that made her grit her teeth. The cotton of her bra strained against her ribs as if the fabric itself was shrinking, but no—she could *feel* them swelling, the cups digging into tender flesh that suddenly hypersensitive to every brush of fabric. Holly's hands hovered over her chest like she was afraid to touch, her breathing ragged. "What the hell—" she whispered, staring down at herself. The seam of her bra popped, the sound obscenely loud in the sterile room.
Between her legs, a slick warmth pooled, sudden and unmistakable. Holly gasped, pressing her thighs together instinctively. The sensation was dizzying—like someone had flipped a switch inside her, flooding her with heat. Her fingers twitched against the exam table paper, crumpling it in her fists. She shouldn't—not here, not *now*—but her body wasn't listening. One hand slid down her stomach, fingertips skimming the waistband of her jeans before dipping lower, tracing the damp fabric clinging to her. A ragged moan escaped before she could bite it back.
“So hot mmmm” Holly moaned softly, arching her back as her lips tingled—plumping suddenly, filling like ripe fruit. She touched them hesitantly, gasping at the slick softness under her fingertips. No lipstick, but her reflection in the metal cabinet showed them swollen ruby-red, glossy as if she'd sucked them raw. The sight sent another pulse of wet heat between her legs, her nipples pressing painfully against her bra's ruined cups. Vivian had said ten minutes—how many had passed? Three? Five? Time blurred like the edges of her vision, syrupy and slow.
“How are you feeling? Holy shit!” Vivian burst back into the room, her usual runway-strut replaced by something closer to a sprint. Her clipboard clattered to the floor as she grabbed Holly’s chin, tilting her face toward the light with an almost frenetic excitement. “Your skin—it’s *perfect*. Like, *photoshop* perfect.” Vivian’s thumb brushed Holly’s cheekbone, her touch electric against the newly smooth surface. “Oh my god, it worked,” she breathed, her dark eyes wide with something between triumph and awe.
“I feel so hot! Is this an allergic reaction?”
Holly gasped as Vivian’s fingers slid down her throat, tracing the newly flawless skin with a reverence that sent another shudder through her. Vivian’s breath hitched—her usual clinical detachment crumbling—as she cupped Holly’s cheek with her free hand, her thumb brushing the plump, glossy swell of Holly’s lower lip. “Not an allergy,” Vivian murmured, her voice thick. “It’s the serum in the shot. Accelerated cellular regeneration.” Her gaze dropped to Holly’s heaving chest, where the torn bra barely contained the lush curves straining against it. “And... other enhancements.”
“It feels so good!” Holly arched off the table as Vivian’s fingers slipped beneath her waistband, the latex gloves cold against her feverish skin. Vivian’s breath hitched—clinical detachment dissolving into something far darker—as she pressed two fingers inside with practiced ease. The moment Vivian curled them just right, Holly’s back bowed, her scream muffled by her own teeth sinking into her plush lower lip. Her scalp tingled violently, strands of hair lifting as if charged with static—then, impossibly, her dull brown roots bled upward into shimmering platinum, the transformation racing down to the tips like ink dispersing in water.
“Yes just give in Holly. Let yourself change!” Vivian gasped, her fingers working deeper as Holly’s body convulsed—not just from pleasure now, but from the impossible metamorphosis surging through her. Holly’s moan dissolved into a choked whimper as her hips jerked, her jeans straining against suddenly fuller thighs, the fabric tearing at the seams. The blonde transformation reached her eyebrows next, the dark arches lightening to a delicate honey-gold, her lashes thickening into feathery fans that fluttered wildly with each ragged breath. Vivian’s grip tightened, her other hand yanking Holly’s ruined shirt open to reveal the bra straps snapping one by one under the pressure of swelling flesh. “Look at you,” Vivian panted, her pupils blown wide. “Perfect.”
“Ungh Yes! Yes! Perfect!!”
Holly’s orgasm hit like a freight train, her back arching violently off the table as her body convulsed—not just from pleasure, but from the serum’s relentless transformation. The fluorescent lights above flickered wildly as her hips jerked against Vivian’s relentless fingers, her thighs trembling as they thickened with new, sculpted muscle. A guttural moan tore from her throat as her nails—once bitten to the quick—lengthened into sharp, pearlescent points, scraping against the paper beneath her.
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