I like beauty to be a bit edgy, not typical. For me, the only

Host: The evening unfurled like silk — smooth, luminous, and restless beneath the hum of the city. Inside a loft studio bathed in amber light, mirrors leaned against the walls, catching fragments of faces, colors, and the faint shimmer of cosmetics spread across a long wooden table. The faint bass from a rooftop party trembled through the floorboards, mingling with the scent of makeup, perfume, and freshly brewed espresso.

Jack sat on a stool near the window, shirt sleeves rolled, a cigarette burning between his fingers like a slow confession. Jeeny stood behind him, her hands stained with shades of carmine and bronze, touching up a model’s cheek on a poster pinned to the wall.

She spoke softly, almost to herself —
Jeeny: “Francois Nars once said, ‘I like beauty to be a bit edgy, not typical. For me, the only rule is looking good.’”

Host: The words floated in the room, half-sweet, half-dangerous. Jack’s eyes, gray and skeptical, reflected the city lights flickering through the glass.

Jack: “That’s the kind of philosophy that keeps plastic surgeons in business.”

Jeeny: laughing lightly “Come on, Jack. It’s not about surgery. It’s about breaking the mold — redefining what beauty means. Edgy beauty has truth in it. It’s raw.”

Jack: “Truth? In beauty? That’s a contradiction if I ever heard one. Beauty’s always been about illusion. Lighting, angles, filters — all smoke and mirrors. Nothing real about it.”

Host: He leaned back, smoke swirling up toward the ceiling like a question without an answer. The studio seemed to shimmer with silent tension — the kind that comes when two people love different gods but share the same altar.

Jeeny: “Illusion doesn’t mean falsehood. Sometimes illusion is how truth shows itself — like art. You think a painting’s a lie just because it isn’t a photograph?”

Jack: “No, but I think calling something real just because it’s unconventional is lazy. People slap the word edgy on anything messy these days. You can paint chaos on your face and call it rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe rebellion is beauty. Maybe that’s what Nars meant. Typical beauty is predictable — symmetry, smooth skin, the same tired perfection. Edgy beauty makes you feel something. It’s not about being liked, it’s about being seen.”

Host: The light shifted as the sunset deepened, turning the white walls into soft shades of violet and gold. A faint breeze stirred through the half-open window, carrying the murmur of distant laughter from the street below.

Jack: “But looking good still matters, right? Even Nars said so. No matter how edgy you claim to be, the game doesn’t change — you just learn to look good breaking the rules.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But that’s not hypocrisy, that’s evolution. You keep the art, lose the conformity. Think of Vivienne Westwood — she made punk beautiful. Or Bowie — he turned androgyny into elegance. They didn’t follow beauty; they rewrote it.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer, setting down her brushes. Her hands brushed against her jeans, leaving faint streaks of gold dust. The glow from the city outside cast a shifting halo over her face — imperfect, radiant, alive.

Jack: “You’re talking about icons. Most people just want to look good enough to be accepted. Not everyone has the luxury of turning rebellion into art.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the trap, Jack. We keep chasing acceptance when we could be creating it. The ‘luxury’ you talk about — it starts when someone stops asking for permission.”

Host: Jack’s cigarette burned out. He stubbed it against the rim of a small porcelain tray filled with lipstick tubes and half-broken pencils.

Jack: “You sound like beauty’s a moral crusade.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. We underestimate how much beauty shapes power. Think about it — from Cleopatra’s kohl-lined eyes to social media influencers today. Beauty influences who gets heard, who gets remembered. That’s power, and it shouldn’t belong only to the ‘typical.’”

Jack: “So we replace one hierarchy with another? Trade classical beauty for curated imperfection? Instagram already did that — people pretending to be authentic while posing in good lighting. Edginess became another aesthetic to sell.”

Host: His tone carried that familiar edge — part cynicism, part truth. Jeeny turned, her reflection multiplied in the mirrors around them, like dozens of versions of herself — confident, uncertain, defiant.

Jeeny: “You’re right — commercial culture devours everything. But that doesn’t mean the rebellion dies. Look at the people who refuse to fit in: drag artists, gender-fluid creators, survivors who show scars instead of hiding them. They’re not selling perfection — they’re reclaiming their image.”

Jack: “You think the world really celebrates that? Or does it just tolerate it for clicks?”

Jeeny: “Both. But tolerance is the first step before transformation.”

Host: The room grew quieter. The hum of the city softened, leaving only the faint buzz of a neon light above them. Jeeny crossed her arms, studying Jack like she was trying to paint him with words.

Jeeny: “You always reduce beauty to vanity. But it’s expression, Jack. A woman who draws black lines under her eyes isn’t just ‘looking good’ — she’s saying something. This is who I am. This is how I see myself.”

Jack: “And if no one listens?”

Jeeny: “Then she still wins. Because she listened to herself.”

Host: The words hit softly, but they landed deep. Jack looked away, eyes tracing the fading colors on the poster — a woman’s face half-covered in shadow, her eyes fierce, imperfect, unforgettable.

Jack: “You know… when I was younger, I thought beauty was a trick — a way people hid their flaws. But lately, I think maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s how we show them — just dressed differently.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re getting it.”

Host: She smiled — a real one, the kind that softens edges rather than sharpens them. The light from outside caught in her hair, turning black into ribbons of amber and red.

Jeeny: “Beauty without risk is decoration. Nars understood that. Edgy beauty — it’s vulnerability wearing confidence.”

Jack: “And you think that makes it more honest?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it tells a story instead of selling an image.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. Somewhere below, a car horn echoed, and the city sighed into quiet. The studio lights dimmed automatically, leaving only the reflection of two silhouettes — him, rigid and thoughtful; her, soft yet unyielding.

Jack: “Maybe beauty isn’t about looking good, Jeeny. Maybe it’s about looking real and surviving it.”

Jeeny: “And maybe ‘looking good’ just means owning your truth — no matter how imperfect it looks to others.”

Host: A silence settled — gentle, not empty. Jack stood, stretching, his shadow stretching across the mirrors. He met her eyes — the gray and the brown meeting somewhere between reason and emotion.

Jack: “You ever think about how fragile it all is? One bad reflection, one wrong angle, and people decide what you’re worth.”

Jeeny: “That’s why you stop letting them decide. You redefine the angle.”

Host: A faint smirk tugged at Jack’s lips. He picked up a small compact mirror from the table, studying his reflection under the amber glow.

Jack: “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re right. Beauty needs its edges — otherwise, it’s just wallpaper.”

Jeeny: “And the world doesn’t need more wallpaper.”

Host: The studio lights flickered once more — catching the dust in the air, the colors, the tension, and the quiet understanding that hung between them.

Outside, the city glimmered like a palette — sharp, uneven, alive. And as they stood together by the window, the reflection of their faces merged in the glass — his stern, hers tender — two forms of beauty coexisting in one fragile image.

In that reflection, beauty was no longer perfection.
It was truth — dressed in courage.