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Down to Earth: Chapter 1

by Shift-Change

(Disclaimer: All images were generated with the help of AI tools)

This story was developed from a suggestion by a user over on the forum Changing Mirror. Looking forward to continuing to explore this premise and setting, a spiritual counterpart to my stories about The Aura salon. Hope you enjoy!

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My faux-fur lined Louboutin slippers were a lovely indulgence on a gorgeous Saturday morning. The click of their three-inch rhinestone-encrusted heels on the polished concrete floor of my trendy loft apartment was a rhythm I knew well. The metronome for my morning. Click, click, click to the Nespresso machine. Click, hiss, pour. I leaned against the cool marble of my kitchen island, sipping, my eyes scanning my own reflection in the dark, silent screen of my oversized television. Even in a simple silk robe, my looks were undeniable.

The reflection that stared back at me was, in a word, a masterpiece. Not a painting, soft and impressionistic, but a sculpture. Hard lines, deliberate curves, every angle perfected through sweat, discipline, and a truly obscene amount of money. I turned slightly, admiring the sweep of my hair, a professionally orchestrated cascade of honey and gold that costs a tidy sum to maintain. It falls perfectly, even now, messy from sleep. I’ve paid for it to fall perfectly.

My hair cascades over the shoulders of a body I’d built with the dedication of a fanatic. Seven days a week in the gym, sculpting my glutes, tightening my core until my stomach was a flat, unforgiving plane. My premium membership at the nearest luxury gym was worth every damn penny.

I glided into my en suite bathroom, intent on putting the finishing touches on my usual full face of makeup. My nails, stiletto-sharp and chromed in a shimmering rose gold, tapped impatiently against the marble of my bathroom counter as I primped and waited for it to be time to head out for my 1pm appointment.

My name is Aliah, and my appearance isn’t just a hobby; it’s my calling. It’s the art I create. Some people might call it narcissism. I call it an investment with spectacular returns. The fawning attention, the free drinks, the way men stumble over their words and women narrow their eyes with a jealousy so tangible you could taste it—that’s my dividend. And yes, sometimes I’m a bitch. So what? Sue me. You don’t get to the top of the food chain by being sweet. You get there by being the predator everyone wants to be or be with. I knew how to get what I wanted in pretty much any situation, whether it took a flirty glance, or a haughty glare.

So when a new salon, “Down to Earth Salon and Spa,” opened up on the ground floor of the building across the street from my high-rise, it felt like the universe was rewarding my efforts. The name was a little… granola for my taste, but the convenience was undeniable. My usual spot was a twenty-minute Uber ride away, and while that place was a veritable palace of mirrors and champagne where everyone knew my name, the thought of a new temple of worship, mere steps from my front door, was too delicious to ignore.

I had a crucial weekend ahead of me. Tonight, I was meeting Jenna and the girls at ‘Aperture,’ a new rooftop bar so exclusive you needed a referral just to get on the waitlist. I’d heard a rumor they did background checks. Tomorrow, a second date with Julian, a jaw-droppingly handsome investment banker who drove a Maserati and had a portfolio that could probably outpace the GDP of several small countries. I needed to be flawless. Utterly, breathtakingly flawless.

I booked the works online: their signature manicure, a full hair cut and color refresh, a deep-cleansing facial, and a tension-release massage. A full diagnostic test of their services. If they impressed me, I might just make them my new weekly go-to. If not, I’d write a scathing review online and never look back.

Saturday afternoon arrived, bathed in golden autumn light. I wore a pair of high-waisted, cream-colored leggings that hugged my curves like a second skin and a matching cashmere crop top. It was an outfit that screamed ‘effortlessly chic’ while simultaneously showing off the fruits of a thousand squats and a thousand crunches. I strolled across the street, the thump-thump of my designer platform sneakers against the pristine sidewalk the only sound breaking the quiet of my upscale neighborhood.

I pushed through the glass front door, under the surprisingly rustic wooden sign. The interior of Down to Earth was… underwhelming. I looked around, a quizzical, scrutinizing expression falling over my face. The walls were a bland shade of tan, the furniture looked like it came from a mid-range office catalogue, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla and hand sanitizer. There was no pulsing music like the soundtrack of a reality show, no clinking of champagne flutes, no gossiping socialites. Maybe they’re going for a minimalist, zen vibe, I told myself, trying to be charitable. The receptionist, a woman with a kind but uninspiring face, checked me in with a soft-spoken efficiency.

I waited in an armchair that was somehow lumpy and firm, scrolling idly through Julian’s Instagram and mentally planning out my best ‘fuck-me’ outfit for our date tomorrow. A few minutes later, a woman named Brenda called my name.

“Aliah? Ready for your manicure, honey?” she asked, her voice as plain as the salon’s decor.

I sat down at her table and presented my hands, a canvas for her to work on. “I want to keep the shape,” I instructed, gesturing with my razor-sharp talons, tapping them playfully on the counter. “Just a refresh on the chrome. Maybe something a little more silver-toned this time.”

Brenda nodded, taking my hand. “Let’s get these tidied up for you.” Her touch was warm, her hands surprisingly strong. As she began to file, a strange thought drifted into my mind, lazy and unbidden. God, these long nails are such a pain. You can’t type, you can’t open a can of soda, so easily chipped. It’s all so impractical.

I blinked. Where had that come from? I loved my nails. They were weapons, accessories, statements, works of art. But the thought lingered, and as Brenda continued to work, it felt… right. The constant upkeep, the fear of breaking one. It was exhausting. A shorter, more sensible length would be so much easier. Cleaner.

When she held my hand out for inspection, my nails were gone. Well, not gone entirely, but the long, dramatic points had been replaced by a short, neat, rounded shape that barely extended past my fingertips.

“What color were we thinking today?” Brenda asked.

I looked at the wall of polish. The bold reds and shimmering metallics seemed so… loud. Aggressive. “Oh, um. Maybe just that one?” I pointed to a simple, unassuming lavender. A safe, neutral color. Perfect. It won’t draw any unnecessary attention to my rather stubby fingers.

I nervously closed my eyes while I waited for Brenda to finish working her magic. When I finally looked down again, I felt a wave of relief.

“Oh, that’s so much better,” I said, a genuine smile on my face. Soft, round, subtle. A perfect look for me. “Thank you, Brenda. I don’t know what I was thinking with those ridiculous claws before.”

Brenda just smiled her plain smile. “Looks lovely and neat, honey.”

Next was hair. I was led to a chair in front of a large mirror. My reflection was, as expected, stunning. The blonde balayage I’d spent a fortune maintaining tumbled over my shoulders in perfect, styled waves. Gary, a man with thinning hair and a gentle demeanor, draped a gown over me.

“So, what are we thinking today?” he asked.

“Just a trim to get rid of any split ends, and a root touch-up. I want to keep the color bright and poppy. And maybe add some layers for volume,” I said, fluffing my hair. It was a key part of my signature aesthetic.

He began to comb through the long strands, and a familiar sense of calm washed over me. I closed my eyes, letting the sounds of the salon wash over me—the snip of scissors, the hum of blow dryers. It was so relaxing. Another strange thought bubbled up. All this bleach is probably so damaging. It’s honestly been a nightmare to maintain. And isn’t it… a little tacky? Maybe something more natural would be more sophisticated.

The thought was jarring. My hair was the opposite of tacky. It was expensive. It was glamorous. It was… a lot of work. And a lot of money. So much toning, so many special shampoos. The idea of just returning to my natural color, something easy and low-maintenance, suddenly seemed incredibly appealing.

When Gary swiveled the chair back around, the mirror revealed a stranger staring back at me. The waterfall of blonde was gone. In its place was shoulder-length, brown hair. Not a rich, chocolatey espresso or a warm chestnut. Just… brown. Boring brown. It lay flat against my head, all the volume and life gone.

I raised my lavender-tipped fingers and touched it. It felt… fine. Just hair.

“What do you think?” Gary asked, a hopeful look in his eyes.

I gave a small, reserved smile. “It’s very… practical,” I said. And it was. This hair wouldn’t require a second thought. It was the kind of hair you could just wash and go. “I like it. Thank you.” I couldn’t believe I’d ever bothered with all that upkeep before.

The facial came next. A quiet room, soft music, and a woman named Sarah with gentle hands. As I lay on the table, I thought about my bone structure. My sharp jawline, my high cheekbones. They were my best features, the architecture of my face. Sarah began applying a cool, clay-like mask. It smelled earthy and rich.

“Your pores look a little congested,” she murmured, her touch light as a feather. “We’ll do a nice deep cleanse and a calming mask.”

Congested? My perfect skin is one of my most prized possessions. It’s clear, dewy, flawless. I follow a ten-step Korean skincare routine every single night. But as she worked, applying various creams and serums, I started to feel a familiar tingling on my chin. The phantom beginnings of a breakout. My skin had always been so problematic. Hormonal acne, oily T-zone… a constant source of frustration. I never really knew how to take care of my skin. None of the products I’ve tried seem to help at all, and I’ve always had to cake on concealer just to feel presentable.

As the mask dried, I felt a peculiar softening sensation, not just in my skin, but deeper. My thoughts drifted. My face is so… sharp. Almost harsh. It can be intimidating. I often wished I could do something about my ‘resting bitch face’; now that’s a phrase I can’t stand. I hate when people get the wrong idea about me. Maybe a softer look would be more approachable. More friendly.

The idea of being ‘approachable’ had never once crossed my mind before. I wasn’t aiming for approachable; I was aiming for unforgettable. But now, the thought of having a softer, kinder face felt… nice.

After Sarah had cleansed and moisturized my skin, she led me to a small makeup station. “Just a little something to freshen you up,” she said.

After the mask, the steaming, the extractions and the light makeup, Sarah handed me a mirror. My face looked clean, but blotchy. My jawline seemed less defined, my cheekbones less prominent. The light caught a few familiar red spots on my forehead. There were a couple more faint red blemishes emerging on my chin that definitely hadn’t been there this morning. I frowned. My skin had always been prone to the odd breakout, though. A constant battle.

Sarah had applied a light moisturizing foundation that didn’t quite cover up the spots, a bit of mascara, and a swipe of nude lipstick. “Just a little something to even things out,” she had said. It’s all the makeup I ever really wear. Anything more would feel like playing dress-up. The face looking back at me was… pleasant. Unremarkable. The kind of face you’d pass on the street and likely forget a moment later. And that felt okay. It felt normal.

Finally, the massage. The room was dimly lit, and a large, solid man named Sven introduced himself. I lay face down on the table, feeling the familiar tightness in my back and shoulders. I prided myself on my physique—the firm curve of my glutes, the hard plane of my abs. It was the result of relentless work and focus.

Sven’s hands were powerful, working deep into the muscles. And as he worked, a profound sense of exhaustion seeped into me. Not just physical, but mental. The thought of a 5am spin class makes me want to crawl back into bed. The endless cycle of workouts, calorie counting, protein shakes… God, it was so much effort. And all for what? My body was just… average. A little soft around the middle, my thighs not as firm as they used to be. My once-perky butt felt a little flatter. That’s just genetics, I supposed.

The thought of just… letting go. Of putting away my home workout equipment for a while. Of pausing my overpriced gym membership, which I was definitely underutilizing these days. Of having a cookie without calculating the macros. Of skipping the gym to lie on the couch and watch a movie. It sounded like heaven.

When the hour was up, I felt boneless and deeply, deeply relaxed. I stood up and pulled my clothes back on. The leggings felt… a little tight around the waist. The crop top revealed a stomach that was no longer perfectly flat, but had a soft, gentle curve to it. I looked in the full-length mirror on the door. My body was… average. The sharp definition was gone, replaced by a softer, plainer shape.

I poked at my stomach. I should probably cut back on the snacks and exercise more. But who really has the time or energy to go to the gym every single day? I really had been slacking on my workouts. I used to be so dedicated, but lately, I just couldn’t find the energy.

I started walking back towards the reception desk, my designer platforms suddenly feeling like any old pair of sneakers. My mind drifted to my plans for the evening. Aperture. A loud, crowded bar full of pretentious people trying to out-cool each other. It sounded awful. So draining. And Julian… his Instagram full of flashy cars and gym selfies suddenly seemed so arrogant. The thought of having to make sparkling conversation with him tomorrow night was exhausting.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text message. It was from my friend, Jen. A sweet girl from my book club.

"Hey Allie! Pizza and a movie night still on? I can bring the wine!"

A huge, genuine smile spread across my face. That sounded absolutely perfect. Cozy. Easy. I quickly typed back.

"Definitely! Can’t wait. I’ll grab the pizza on my way home. Let me know what toppings you want!"

Another buzz. This time it was Julian, the finance bro.

"Can’t wait for tomorrow. I booked us an 8pm reservation at Per Se."

Per Se? Oh, god. A tasting menu. A dress code. Three hours of polite conversation and tiny, intimidating food. The pressure. My stomach gurgled in protest at the prospect of going home anxious and hungry. I just wasn't in the mood. And Julian was way out of my league. I couldn’t think of anything to wear that wouldn’t make me feel like a frumpy little potato.

"Hey Julian," I typed, stopping myself from chewing on my freshly manicured thumbnail. "Something’s come up and I have to cancel for tomorrow. So sorry! Maybe we can just grab a coffee sometime?"

The memories of my original weekend plans, of partying late into the night at Aperture with my squad or a confident, sizzling date with the rich hottie Julian, had evaporated like morning mist. This had been my plan all along. Quiet night in with Jen. Ghost the guy who must’ve accidentally matched with me on Bumble. What else would I have planned for my weekend?

I walked back out to the reception area, keeping my eyes down. I felt clumsy and awkward even in my regular shoes. What was I thinking wearing this tight outfit?

“All finished?” the receptionist asked with a warm smile.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, my voice softer than I remember it being. “It was very nice.”

The receptionist tallied up my bill. The total was surprisingly reasonable. I paid with my debit card, the transaction feeling sensible and prudent, even if it was a little more of a splurge than I usually indulged in.

As I waited for the receipt, I caught my reflection in the glass of the salon’s front door. A plain woman with passable brown hair and a friendly, if forgettable face stood there, wrapped in a comfortable-looking cream-colored cardigan I didn’t remember putting on. It matched my loose-fitting joggers perfectly. My reflection wasn’t a head-turner. She wasn’t a masterpiece or a sculpture. She was just… a person.

I wasn’t a natural beauty, and I knew it. Any help I could get was a bonus. This place had done a nice job. The haircut was tidy, my nails were neat, and a little makeup never hurt anyone. I wasn’t confident enough to try anything too bold or dramatic, but for a simple refresh, this was fine. I’m not the kind of person who would do this all the time, obviously. It’s a bit frivolous. But it’s good to do something for yourself once in a while, isn’t it? Especially if you keep in mind that there’s only so much they can do with what you’ve got, so that you’re not disappointed with the end results.

“Have a good weekend,” the receptionist said with a smile.

“You t-too,” I stuttered, smiling meekly.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk. The late afternoon sun was warm on my face. I pulled my cardigan tighter around me and started the short walk home to my mid-rise apartment building around the block, thinking about pizza orders and movie nights and my cozy worn-in slippers. I blended seamlessly into the crowd of people heading home from their Saturday errands, another down-to-earth woman in a city full of them, completely content and utterly unaware that I had ever been anyone else.

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