Chapter 5: “I love ice cream! It’s like oral sex with a snowmare!”

With this Cloud Kicker party coming up tomorrow evening, Runway wants to make sure she’s absolutely ready for anything. Which of course means going to a spa. Why is there an “of course” in that sentence? I don’t know, ask her.

“So do you know any good spas around here? I need a facial, and a hooficure, and a really good manecut,” Runway says, prattling on about all the things she wants to do to get ready for this party.

“No, I don’t. I’m an athlete. I go to the gym and do all my makeup and maintenance at home. And I only cut my mane when I really need to,” I explain, rolling my eyes.

We’d decided to go straight home after our shopping, as neither of us felt like dragging a bunch of bags around town. Having stashed everything in the guest room, save for the one bag that was mine, which is currently laying on my bed, we’ve sat ourselves on the couch and are watching TV while we figure out where to go next. Well, I’m watching TV. Runway’s going through some magazines looking for recommendations for spa treatments and the like. Honestly I’d just use the yellow pages.

She gives me a once-over, her eyes just barely hovering over the top of a Cloud Beat magazine, and she mutters, “Well, that explains a lot.”

I glare at the magazine, and her behind it. “The hay does that mean?!”

She looked at me again, sighed, rolled her eyes, and dropped the magazine. It was quite the production for two seconds of motion. “Look, Dusty, I love you, but you look like a dyke.”

“I am a dyke!” I retort. I pause, and think about correcting myself, or at least making it sound better, but there’s not much saving face there.

“And that’s part of the problem. Your self-image needs a lot of work. I’m not saying being a dyke is a bad thing, but you’re so set on this macho stallionette image that you don’t see how pretty you could be.” She picks up a different magazine, one with her on the cover, and points it out to me. “See? Normally I’m just kind of hot. But the right makeup and clothes? And I’m absolutely gorgeous. You just need some help!” she insists.

“And what makes you think I can be as pretty as you?” I deadpan.

“...”

I raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“We’re twins.”

“And?”

“Identical twins. Dusty, sweetheart, I’m supposed to be the dense one.”

My eyebrow drops. “Oh. Right.” I hate it when she’s right. “So what are you suggesting?”

“Well, we have the clothes,” she points a hoof to my bedroom, “No thanks to you. Now we just need to give you a proper makeover!” She says excitedly.

“Oh no. Oh HELL no. I’m not getting a makeover. Just let me get a haircut and a shower and I’ll be fine,” I reason.

Now, I’m not opposed to being well-groomed and making yourself look nice. But I think there’s a limit on how much makeup a pony can apply in one sitting, and only to their face. I can’t stand the thought of having all of my me getting all prettied up. It bugs the shit out of me. Having all that powder on my face, ponies touching my mane, hooficures... buhuhuhuh. No thanks.

“Look, sis, you need some help. At least a little. I promise it won’t be anything too extreme, but can we at the very least make you look like a mare?” Runway pleads.

“You aren’t going to let up, are you?” I ask, sensing my imminent defeat.

“I will drag you there by your eyebrows if I have to,” she insists. I can tell she’s serious. Which kinda scares me a little.

I mean, I might not really like my eyebrows, but they are attached.

“Fine. Let’s do this thing,” I grumble.

-----------------------

The place she drags me to is this tiny little fru-fru kill-me-now pink beauty salon called Pampered Pegasus. I can practically feel my fur trying to escape on its own, and for just a moment the notion passes that if I try to walk in the door I’d end up bald.

But no, that doesn’t happen. Instead, we’re greeted by a stallion whose dad must have been a flaming homo and his mom Freddie Marecury. “Hi~” he calls out just as we step through the door. “Hey ladies, what can I do for you?” he croons.

With a stylish purple coat and a wave dark-blue mane, this colt is probably the most colorful--and tasteful--things in the room. He’s wearing glasses that, on anypony else, would be totally hipster. On him? It gives him big doe-eyes that would make any straight girl melt.

“OhmygodIlovehimcanwetakehimhomewithus pleeeeeeaaaassse?” Runway begs, all but throwing herself at me.

“...no,” I say after a pause. I did have to think about it. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Well, if somepony isn’t a little grumpypants today. I’m Hot Coutoure, but all my friends call he Coty. Come in~! Let’s get you girls all set up. What’ll it be today?” he plops us down in a couple of chairs, and that’s when I notice that, even as busy as this place seems to be, there are blank seats every so often, and nopony seems to be waiting in line. The room is full of chatter though. Girly voices talk about the latest gossip or clothes or how they want their mane done.

“Kind of a slow day?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from whatever the hell this stallion plans on doing to my face.

Coty looks around, and shrugs. “Not more than usual. If you’re referring to our lack of a cue, we take pride in making sure everypony is served as soon as they come in. Nopony should have to wait for fashion!” he exclaims with great flair.

Runway claps her hooves while I roll my eyes. Coty notices this, and gives me a rather honest deadpan stare. “Lemme guess, you’re the gay one?”

I’d be offended if he wasn’t right on cue. “Yup. I probably have more testosterone in my body than you do. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m here.”

Runway leans over the side of her chair and lays her head on my shoulder. “You’re here because you looooooooooove me!”

I sigh, and smile a little as I push her off. “Get back in your own seat, Runway.”

Coty stops. “Runway? As in Runway Project?!” he squeals. Almost instantly the entire room goes quiet. “Oh, my Luna! I loved that Hotel Chic line you wore last month, it was amazing~!” The room fills up with chatter again, this time more excitable and exuberant than before. Everypony seems to be looking at my sister, which is fine with me. As much as I like having fans, this isn’t exactly a place I’d want to be recognized.

Which lasts all of five seconds, as somepony two seats down points out, “Oh my goodness, that’s Lightning Dust! The Wonderbolt!”

Now, while I may still be in the academy, one of the things recruits are required to do is uniformed patrols. Some ponies might think that just flying around wearing a recruit’s uniform might not qualify as being a full-on Wonderbolt, but there are quite a few that think that the badge they give us, and wearing the colors, means you’re full-on WB material.

Nopony who’s a recruit feels like discouraging this notion. Our egos couldn’t handle it.

But of course, this means that anytime a local becomes either a recruit or a full-fledged member, everypony knows about it. Ponies love to gossip, and the Wonderbolts are one of Cloudsdale’s two claims to fame. The other being the weather factory. But since the factory is mostly an industrial attraction, and a source for jobs, the Wonderbolts get most of the media attention right down to the newest rosters.

Which means getting recognized in public right when you don’t want to be.

I turn to Runway as everypony in the salon goes crazy over the two of us getting makeovers together, and Coty cries out, “Oooooh! I get to be a stylist to the stars!”

“Sis?”

“Yeah Dusty?” she asks, turning her head away from somepony in the next seat asking for her autograph.

“We are so going out for ice cream after this.”

“Oooh, I love ice cream! It’s like oral sex with a snowmare!” she cheers.

Celestia help me.