Chapter 82: What about my hair?

Chapter 82: Chapter 82: What about my hair? Now, if you’re wondering why the night is far from over—well, the answer is simple. It’s Isabella. Trouble never sleeps when she’s around. And the reason she had been staring daggers at poor Ophelia earlier? Not because she was plotting something diabolical. Not because Ophelia had secretly stolen an extra piece of meat (which, let’s be honest, she totally did). No—Isabella was thinking about herbs. Her mind had suddenly jumped to all the ingredients she’d gathered from the mountain earlier. Her stash was ridiculous, practically filling up half the space in... well, her space. And now, she was itching to make something with them. But she knew better. With how her body had been acting up lately—getting weaker by the day—she had to be patient. Once she was back in top form? Kian better march her straight to the village square, stand her on some grand platform, and declare to the village that she was their long-lost goddess, sent to redeem them. And those villagers? They better drop to their knees. But that was a future problem. Right now, there was something far more important happening. Right now, Ophelia was gulping nervously, sitting cross-legged in front of Isabella. The only source of light in the darkness was a strange, glowing orb in Isabella’s hands, casting eerie shadows around them. Ophelia had asked, wide-eyed, "What is that?" And Isabella, without missing a beat, had replied, "An invention." And the poor girl had believed her. Because why? It’s Isabella. If only Ophelia knew that Isabella had climbed a cursed mountain, stolen who-knows-what, and brought back things of questionable origin. But at this moment? Ophelia wasn’t worried about that. She was worried about the fact that Isabella was scrutinizing her like a meal. And what made it worse? Glimora—the little white, elegant pet—was sitting right beside Isabella, mirroring the exact same look. It was cute. Too cute. And yet, deeply unsettling. Ophelia swallowed. "...Why are you looking at me like that?" "I’m studying you," Isabella said with a straight face, as if that was the most normal thing in the world. Ophelia blinked. "Studying me?" she echoed, tilting her head in confusion. "Why?" Isabella met her eyes, her expression dead serious. "So I can perfect your beauty." The way she said it—so bluntly, so casually—made Ophelia’s cheeks flush. Her chubby fingers curled into her lap as she fidgeted. "M-My beauty?" "Mhm." Isabella leaned forward, eyes assessing every inch of her face like a sculptor studying a block of untouched marble. Ophelia sat up straighter, feeling both nervous and flattered. Did this mean she was already beautiful? Or did Isabella think she was so flawed that she needed urgent fixing? Meanwhile, Glimora, was still perched beside her, mirroring her intense gaze. It was almost comical how in sync they were. But Ophelia wasn’t laughing. Because while she blushed under Isabella’s scrutiny, Isabella was completely serious. Her real plan? To analyze every one of Ophelia’s "flaws" and create a solution. A serum? A potion? A secret beautification technique never seen before in the Stone Age? Who knew? But one thing was certain—Isabella was on a mission. And Ophelia? Ophelia had absolutely no idea what she had just signed up for. She only knew one thing—she was being studied like a rare, underwhelming artifact. Isabella squinted, tilting her head left, then right, then even leaned forward as if getting a closer look at a flawed painting. "Hmm... yes. I see it now," she murmured, nodding to herself. Ophelia gulped. See what?! Before she could ask, Isabella straightened, flicking her wrist dramatically as if preparing for an important announcement. "First of all," Isabella began, voice authoritative—the kind that made people listen without question. "Your hair." Ophelia’s hand instinctively flew to her curls. "What about my hair?" Isabella exhaled, like a tired goddess burdened with too much knowledge. "It’s not bad, don’t get me wrong," she said, making it sound ten times worse. "But it’s... sad. Like it’s given up on life." Ophelia’s jaw dropped. Her hair was sad?! "You need moisture," Isabella continued, tapping her chin. "No, you need deep hydration. Your strands are literally crying out for help." Ophelia blinked, helplessly running her fingers through her curls. "B-But how do I fix that?" "Oil," Isabella declared. "Aloe vera. Maybe some honey if I can get my hands on it. Your scalp is struggling, Ophelia. We need to breathe life back into it." As if on cue, Glimora nodded firmly beside her, though the little creature had zero idea what any of that meant. Ophelia swallowed. Her scalp was struggling? "And your skin." Isabella sighed dramatically, shaking her head. Now Ophelia really felt nervous. She hadn’t thought much about her skin before, but now? She suddenly felt exposed. "W-What’s wrong with my skin?" she asked hesitantly. Isabella gave her a patient yet deeply disappointed look. "Where do I begin?" Oh no. "You have great potential," Isabella assured her, placing a comforting hand on her arm. "But you need exfoliation. You need glow. Your skin deserves to radiate like the morning sun, not just... exist." Ophelia pressed her lips together. Did her skin really just ’exist’ before? Glimora, ever supportive, bobbed her little head again. Ophelia’s confidence began to crumble. "Also," Isabella continued, eyes narrowing, "your lips—" Ophelia covered them immediately. "WHAT ABOUT MY LIPS?!" Isabella gave her a pointed look. "You lick them too much." Ophelia gasped. "That’s why they’re dry," Isabella continued, matter-of-factly. "I bet if I gave you a mirror, you’d see cracks." Ophelia’s soul left her body. Glimora nodded again—loyal, so loyal. "Don’t worry," Isabella reassured, "I’ll fix it. But first, we must acknowledge the problem." Ophelia sat frozen, feeling thoroughly examined and exposed. She didn’t even understand half of what Isabella was saying, yet the confidence in her voice made her feel like she had a thousand hidden flaws she never knew existed. Was she... ugly? No one had ever said anything before. But then again, no one had studied her like this before either. "Also, your brows," Isabella added suddenly, snapping her fingers. Ophelia flinched. "W-What about them?" Isabella tilted her head, analyzing. "They have good shape," she admitted. "But they could be cleaner. A little shaping, a little definition—oh, Ophelia, the things I could do for you." Ophelia gripped her skirt. Glimora nodded enthusiastically. Ophelia’s soul cracked further. Isabella, having finally finished her unfiltered evaluation, leaned back and folded her arms. "There," she said with finality. "That’s the diagnosis." Silence. Ophelia stared at the orb in Isabella’s hands, processing. She felt naked. Exposed. Like she had been walking around thinking she looked normal, when in reality, she was a walking disaster. Her scalp was struggling. Her skin was existing but not glowing. Her lips were cracked. Her eyebrows were unshaped. Oh gods. She wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there. Isabella, sensing the shift in Ophelia’s demeanor, finally frowned. "What’s wrong?" she asked.