I have this image in my head - an image of a woman who when looked upon your gaze has to be lowered, she'll be looked at again because you need to assure yourself that you have just witnessed her. Your gaze is widened and moved to others to assure they're seeing what you're seeing. They are. This woman is a badass.
My image of her varies; she either has her tresses tousled enough that you don't even begin to question if she woke up like that, you already know she did, or she's got them slicked back into a sleek, low ponytail that only she, and the badass female company she keeps, have the features and expressions to pull off. Clothing hangs on her perfectly, she wakes up near dawn and drinks her dark coffee. She manages a career, family, an active social life, and general life maintenance while perpetuating slender and smooth, manicured tips at all times.
She sifts through her morning emails with her white gold iPhone in her left hand while stood in front of a mirror and dusting the Hourglass Radiant Powder across the tops of her cheek bones with the other. She takes a sip of her tall, white mug then purses her lips to savour the taste because her first coffee of the day is always her favourite. Her eyes are accentuated with a light dusting of MAC Soba because she never sways from matte. She finds her ever so slightly winged liner as easy as she does choosing which shoes to wear. A spritz of Miss Dior Cherie is never missed as she opens her front door upon exit, tapping it on the backs of her ears because she knows that's how to make it last.
Before entering her crisp, wall-to-wall windowed, top floor office, she slips out a compact as thing as her credit card, tilts her head back and applies Rimmel's In Love With Ginger, perfectly accentuating her cupids bow. She tucks her Revlon Audacious lip crayon in the side of her Prada, she knows she'll need it after her waldorf salad come lunch. She claims to be a minimalist, yet her mind is constantly filled with to-dos, you'll never know that though. She'll trace into her home later that night, kiss her husband, squeeze her children's shoulders and wiggle her nose at them. Not until then does she take off her pointed toe heels and release her hair.
I want to be her.