Plucked Chicken

I am getting ready to attend a wedding. And it is making me feel like a hapless plucked, primed, marinated, and painted chicken.


You see, I am expected to get plucked (tweezed and waxed) of all plumage except that on the top of my head. 

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Those plumage on the top of my head are supposed to be dyed long before I die. 

Then my face is to be marinated with variety of facial products. 

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Later I need to get primed (just like walls) with foundations and then finally painted and powdered. Then I will be dressed with all sorts of clothes and jewelry that I rarely wear and feel uncomfortable wearing.

And why am I willing to do all this?

Because if I don't, then my relatives and friends will think that I am depressed, sick, or mentally unstable.
Because everybody is doing the same thing and it is presumed to be a fun thing to do.
Because it is our chance to behave as though we are Bollywood stars and not our own mundane selves.

But the thing is that I like myself- just the way I am. Yes the mundane me. So why will I go through the whole ordeal? I don't know. Maybe because I am just a plucked chicken?

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