Faster Than a Bananarama

Margot found the corner seat by muscle memory—far enough from the reception desk to avoid small talk, close enough to hear her fake name called. She'd been working waiting rooms for forty-three years, though usually they had headshots taped to walls instead of before-and-after surgical photos showcasing the same face twice: broken, then fixed.

"Patricia Patterson," she wrote on the intake form, using the same alias she'd deployed at cattle calls since the Reagan administration. The pen felt heavier than usual, like it was writing in permanent ink on her soul.

A woman across the room flipped through Variety with hands that belonged to someone twenty years younger than her face. Or maybe it was the other way around—Dr. Hendricks' work made chronology a guessing game.

"First time?" the woman asked. Her voice had that particular quality of someone whose facial muscles hadn't moved naturally in decades.

"Yes."

"You'll adore him. I've been coming here for fifteen years and casting directors still think I'm auditioning for my own daughter's roles." She looked up, and Margot saw something unsettling—the woman's eyes were the only part of her face that seemed to remember how to express emotion.

Two other patients whispered nearby:

"Did you see what happened to Melody Crane? Completely overdid the fillers. Looks like she's storing nuts for winter."

"Better than Jennifer Walsh. That facelift was so tight, she can't close her eyes properly. Has to tape them shut to sleep."

Margot's phone buzzed. Bradley, her agent: Studio confirmed table read moved to next week. Perfect timing for healing! They're SO excited to meet the "refreshed" you. Break both legs! (But not your new face! LOL)

The refreshed you. As if the current version was corrupted software in need of an update.

"Mrs. Patterson?" The nurse appeared with that medical-grade smile. "Dr. Hendricks is ready for you."

Margot followed her down a hallway lined with more surgical testimonials. The fluorescent lighting made everyone look slightly deceased.

"Just undress from the waist up and put on this gown," the nurse said, handing her something that felt like tissue paper with delusions of grandeur. "Opening to the front. Dr. Hendricks will be right in."

The examination room smelled like the intersection of hope and desperation—all antiseptic cleaner and barely concealed anxiety. Margot hung her purse on the small hook beside the door and caught her reflection in the mirror as she pulled her sweater over her head. Forty-three years of character work etched into every line: worry creases from playing concerned mothers, laugh lines from comic relief roles, the slight asymmetry around her left eye from a stage accident in 1987 that taught her how to convey heartbreak without words.

A roadmap of professional experience, about to be demolished for urban renewal.

Dr. Hendricks entered without knocking, already studying her chart. He had that ageless quality of men who'd surgically erased their own timeline—silver hair perfectly styled, skin stretched over sharp cheekbones with the tautness of a drumhead.

"Career enhancement, I see." He circled her like a cinematographer choosing angles. "Excellent bone structure. We can absolutely work with this foundation."

Foundation. Like her face was a building in need of structural renovation.

"The industry's evolved significantly since you started," he continued, his fingers cool and clinical when they touched her jawline. "Youth is the primary currency now. But we can buy you another decade, easily."

"I'm thinking conservative approach initially—soften these expression lines around the eyes, lift this area slightly, maybe some volumizing in the nasolabial folds. Nothing dramatic. You'll still look like yourself, just... optimized."

Optimized. She wondered what the original version of herself had been doing wrong all these years.

"Let's get you positioned on the table and we'll mark the injection sites."

The examination table crackled like autumn leaves under her weight. Above her, surgical lights hummed with film set intensity. Dr. Hendricks uncapped a purple marker and began drawing on her face—small dots and lines mapping out her upcoming revision.

"This might feel a bit cold," he said, his breath smelling of expensive coffee and professional detachment.

"Now, you might feel a slight—"

The lights died.

Emergency lighting flickered on like dying candles, bathing everything in hellish red. Somewhere deep in the building, a generator coughed to life, wheezed dramatically, then expired with the finality of a death rattle.

"Grid failure," Dr. Hendricks muttered. "Third blackout this week. The heat wave's murdering the infrastructure."

Through the window, rolling blackouts spread across Los Angeles like dominoes. The city suffocating under record temperatures, its artificial cooling systems buckling under everyone's desperate need to avoid discomfort.

"Hospital protocol dictates no elective procedures during emergency power," he said, irritation creeping into his voice. "We'll have to wait for full restoration."

He left her there, marked up like a butcher's diagram, while he went to argue with whoever was responsible for keeping the lights on. The emergency lighting pulsed like a dying heartbeat.

Through the thin walls, she could hear fragments of other conversations:

"—told her agent she needed to go up two cup sizes if she wanted the action roles—"

"—spent sixty thousand on his jaw implants and still looks like a thumb with anxiety—"

"Ma'am?" A different nurse appeared, younger, with the kind of natural beauty that hadn't yet learned to be dissatisfied with itself. "I'm sorry, but we need to move you to the patient waiting area while we sort out the power situation. Hospital protocol."

Margot followed the nurse through corridors lit only by exit signs. Other patients moved through the semi-darkness like extras in a low-budget horror film, all caught between their old faces and their intended new ones.

The waiting alcove had plastic chairs from the Carter administration and magazines from the same era. She wasn't alone.

A child sat across from her, maybe seven years old, half her face wrapped in gauze thick enough to suggest serious damage underneath. The little girl was coloring with fierce concentration, tongue poking out as she worked to stay inside the lines of a princess in an elaborate ball gown.

"Are you getting your face fixed too?" the child asked without looking up, as if facial reconstruction was as common as getting teeth cleaned.

Margot became aware of her paper gown, the purple surgical markings smeared across her cheeks like war paint. "Something like that, sweetheart. What about you?"

"Car accident. The windshield broke and cut me up pretty bad." She said it matter-of-factly, the way children do when they haven't learned shame. "But the doctor says he can make the scars go away so the other kids won't stare at me during lunch."

The girl held up her coloring book—every line perfectly contained, every detail meticulously filled in. "I like to color inside the lines. Mommy says it's good practice for being normal."

Normal. Margot looked at the child's unbandaged side—round cheeks, bright eyes, the kind of face Norman Rockwell would have painted if he'd specialized in portraits of resilience.

"Can I tell you a silly story while we wait?" Margot asked, her voice automatically shifting into the cadence she used with her granddaughter during their weekly FaceTime calls from Tokyo.

The girl's face brightened like someone had switched on a lamp inside her head. "I love stories!"

"This is about a very ridiculous bird called Peacocka von Preening."

Without conscious thought, Margot's face began to transform—her eyes widening into theatrical circles, her mouth pursing into an expression of supreme vanity. Every purple mark became part of the performance.

"Now, Peacocka was absolutely convinced she was the most gorgeous bird in the entire forest. She spent all day looking at herself in puddles and polishing her feathers and practicing poses."

The child giggled as Margot's expression became increasingly preposterous.

"But here's the thing—Peacocka wasn't actually the prettiest bird in the forest. Her feathers were all different colors in a way that didn't quite match, and her tail was crooked from an old injury, and one of her eyes was slightly bigger than the other."

"What did she do?"

"Well, one day she heard that all the most important birds were invited to a very fancy party at the Golden Oak Tree. And only the most beautiful birds would be allowed to sit at the head branch."

Margot found herself leaning forward, completely absorbed in the ridiculous character she was creating.

"So Peacocka decided she absolutely had to get her feathers professionally beautified. She flew to the Forest Beauty Clinic and told Dr. Woodpecker that she needed to look perfect for the party."

"Did the doctor fix her?"

"Dr. Woodpecker was just about to start his very expensive feather-smoothing treatment when Peacocka started having second thoughts. 'But what if I don't look like myself anymore?' she worried."

Margot made her voice even more pompous and silly: "'Don't be ridiculous,' Peacocka told herself. 'Those other birds may be naturally prettier, but I'm faster than a bananarama! I can out-perform any of them!'"

The child burst into delighted laughter. "What does that mean?"

"Nobody knew what it meant! It was just something Peacocka said when she felt insecure. 'But I'm faster than a bananarama!' Like it was some kind of magical phrase."

"What happened next?"

"Well, Dr. Woodpecker was just about to start plucking and re-arranging Peacocka's feathers when suddenly—" Margot made an exaggerated shocked expression, "—all the lights in the Forest Beauty Clinic went out!"

The child clapped her hands, delighted by the parallel.

"And while Peacocka was sitting there in the dark, she heard crying from the next tree over."

"Who was crying?"

"A little baby owl who'd been hurt in a terrible storm. Half her face was all scratched up from flying into branches, and she needed Dr. Woodpecker's help just to be able to see properly again."

The girl's hand unconsciously moved toward her bandaged cheek.

"Peacocka looked at herself in the dark mirror—all marked up for her beauty treatment, sitting there in a paper gown that made crinkly sounds. Then she looked at the little owl who really, truly needed the doctor's help."

"What did she realize?"

Margot felt something fundamental shift in her chest, like tumblers clicking into place in a lock she hadn't known was there.

"She realized she'd been asking the wrong question the whole time."

"What do you mean?"

"Instead of asking 'How can I be prettier?' she should have been asking 'Who would miss me if I changed?'"

The girl considered this with the seriousness of a judge weighing evidence. "What did Peacocka do?"

Through the emergency lighting, Margot caught sight of her reflection in the window—purple marks smudged, paper gown falling off one shoulder, hair messed up. She looked completely ridiculous.

She also looked completely awake for the first time in months.

"Mrs. Patterson?" Dr. Hendricks appeared in the doorway, his professional smile firmly welded in place. "Excellent news—the generator's back online and we're cleared for procedures. Ready to finish what we started?"

The fluorescent lights flickered back to life with interrogation room intensity. The child squinted in the sudden brightness.

Margot stood slowly, aware of every crinkle of the paper gown, every smeared purple mark, every choice that had led her to this moment.

"Doctor," she said carefully, "I think I need to retrieve something from the examination room first."

"Of course, but we are running significantly behind schedule."

The child looked up expectantly as Margot walked past, her coloring book forgotten. The little girl's expression suggested she understood exactly where this was heading—back to Dr. Woodpecker, back to the feather appointment.

Margot walked to the examination room, past the nurse who nodded approvingly, past Dr. Hendricks checking his watch. She pushed open the door to where it had all started—the mirror, the surgical lights humming back to life, the examination table still covered with crinkled paper.

Her purse hung exactly where she'd left it, on the small hook beside the door like a talisman from her real life.

She unhooked it slowly, checking for her keys and phone. Through the window, she could see the parking garage where her car waited—her escape route back to a world where faces told stories instead of hiding them.

When she emerged, the medical staff barely looked up. Just another patient collecting belongings before the procedure.

The child was still coloring when Margot walked back through the emergency waiting area, but her eyes followed every step. The little girl's expression had shifted from expectation to something more complex—understanding mixed with disappointment.

As Margot passed the child's chair, she paused for just a moment. Without saying a word, she touched her own cheek—right where the purple marks had smudged into abstract art—then made the silliest Peacocka von Preening expression she could manage. Eyes wide with theatrical vanity, mouth pursed in ridiculous pomposity, every line in her face participating in the absurd performance.

The child's face exploded into delighted recognition. She understood immediately: Peacocka had chosen the little owl over the fancy party.

Margot winked and continued walking.

"Ma'am?" The receptionist called after her as she headed for the exit. "Ma'am, you can't leave the building in the hospital gown!"

But Margot was already pushing through the exit doors into the blazing California heat.

She sat in her car for several minutes, air conditioning blasting, still wearing the paper gown and smeared purple markings. Her phone was having an electronic seizure—Bradley calling every thirty seconds, the studio texting frantic messages.

In the rearview mirror, the purple marks had transformed into abstract art. She looked like someone's art project abandoned halfway through completion.

She also looked like herself—maybe more like herself than she had in years.

The drive home took her through neighborhoods where rolling blackouts had left traffic lights dark and palm trees drooping like exhausted dancers. At a red light that may or may not have been functioning, a homeless man approached her window. When he saw her purple-marked face and paper gown, he nodded approvingly.

"Performance art?" he asked.

"Something like that," she replied.

"Right on. Stick it to the man."

At home, she peeled off the paper gown and stood under the shower until the purple marks swirled down the drain like the last remnants of someone else's vision for her future. She put on clothes that felt like a hug—soft cotton that didn't crinkle or gap.

Her phone rang just as she was settling onto her back patio with tea. Her daughter's face appeared on the screen from Tokyo.

"Mom, you look... different. Good different. What happened today?"

"Just had an illuminating conversation with a peacock."

"Never mind, I've learned not to question your stories. Sophia's been asking about that silly bird character you invented—something about a magic something-or-other?"

Her granddaughter's face filled the screen, gap-toothed and radiant with unselfconscious beauty.

"Nonna!" Sophia squealed. "Tell me more about Peacocka von Preening! What happened after the lights went out?"

Margot felt her face shift automatically into character, every line and wrinkle becoming part of the performance. The late afternoon light was soft and golden, nothing like the harsh medical office fluorescents.

"Well, stellina, that's where the story gets interesting. Peacocka realized something very important while she was sitting there in the dark."

"What did she realize?"

"She realized that the little owl who was crying in the next tree—that little owl would miss Peacocka exactly as she was. Crooked tail, mismatched feathers, funny voice and all."

"Why?"

"Because Peacocka was the only one who knew how to tell stories that made the little owl laugh when she was scared. And if Peacocka changed herself to look like all the other pretty birds, she might not be able to make those special faces anymore."

Sophia's eyes widened with understanding. "So what did she do?"

"She told Dr. Woodpecker to help the little owl first. And while she was waiting, she looked in the mirror and said something very important."

"What did she say?"

Margot grinned, letting every line in her face participate in the expression. "She said, 'You know what? I may not be the prettiest bird in the forest, but I'm faster than a bananarama! And that's exactly fast enough.'"

Sophia dissolved into giggles. "What does that mean, Nonna?"

"It means that being good at what you do is more important than looking like you're good at what you do."

After they hung up, Margot sat in her garden as the sun set over Los Angeles. The power grid hummed back to life across the city, air conditioners resuming their desperate battle against heat that was only going to get worse.

Her phone continued its electronic tantrum—Bradley probably calculating evaporating commission, casting directors wondering where their "refreshed" actress had disappeared to.

She let them all go to voicemail.

Through her kitchen window, she could see her neighbor Mrs. Kowalski watering her tomatoes, her face creased with lines that spoke of decades of honest living. Mrs. Kowalski waved, and Margot waved back.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to choose between looking the part and being the part. But tonight, she was exactly where she belonged—making faces that her granddaughter would miss if they were gone.

She raised her glass to the rolling blackouts, to the climate change forcing artificial systems to acknowledge their limitations, to all the peacocks who had ever been told their natural feathers weren't marketable enough.

"To being faster than a bananarama," she said aloud.

Somewhere in Tokyo, a little girl dreamed of crooked-tailed birds who knew the secret of being exactly fast enough. Somewhere in Los Angeles, a cosmetic surgeon wondered what had happened to his five o'clock appointment and whether his malpractice insurance covered patients who escaped in hospital gowns.

And somewhere in the vast space between looking the part and being the part, an actress who had spent a lifetime making other people look good finally understood that the roles worth playing were the ones where someone would miss you specifically if you were gone.

Even if—especially if—that someone was yourself.