R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Venia, a woman with aqua hair

and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of Fabric

from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it.(用一个胶条从我的腿上拔汗毛)

“Sorry!” she pipes in her silly Capitol accent. “You’re just so hairy!”

Why do these people speak in such a high pitch? Why do

their jaws barely open when they talk? Why do the ends of

their sentences go up as if they’re asking a question? Odd vowels,

clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s . . . no

wonder it’s impossible not to mimic them.

Venia makes what’s supposed to be a sympathetic face.

“Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?” I get a grip

on the edges of the table I’m seated on and nod. The final

swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk.

I’ve been in the Remake Center for more than three hours

and I still haven’t met my stylist. Apparently he has no interest

in seeing me until Venia and the other members of my prep

team have addressed some obvious problems. This has included

scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has

removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning

my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body

of hair. My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows

have been stripped of the Muff, leaving me like a

plucked bird, ready for roasting. I don’t like it. My skin feels

sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable. But I have kept my

side of the bargain with Haymitch, and no objection has

crossed my lips.

“You’re doing very well,” says some guy named Flavius. He

gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh

coat of purple lipstick to his mouth.(他边摇着桔红色拔毛夹子，

边在嘴上抹着紫色的唇膏) “If there’s one thing we

can’t stand, it’s a whiner. Grease her down!”

Venia and Octavia, a plump woman whose entire body has

been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lotion

that first stings but then soothes my raw skin. Then they

pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I’ve been allowed

to wear off and on. I stand there, completely naked, as

the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits

of hair. I know I should be embarrassed, but they’re so unlike

people that I’m no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly

colored birds were pecking around my feet.

(他们三个围着我，用镊子除掉我身上的最后一点汗毛。

我知道自己应该感到害臊，可我却没有。在我看来，

他们根本不像人类，不比三只颜色古怪、在我脚边啄食

的鸟更让我害臊。)

The three step back and admire their work. “Excellent! You

almost look like a human being now!” says Flavius, and they

all laugh.

I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am.

“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “We don’t have much cause to look

nice in District Twelve.”

This wins them over completely. “Of course, you don’t, you

poor darling!” says Octavia clasping her hands together in 

distress for me.

“But don’t worry,” says Venia. “By the time Cinna is through

with you, you’re going to be absolutely gorgeous!”

“We promise! You know, now that we’ve gotten rid of all the hair 

and filth, you’re not horrible at all!” says Flavius encouragingly.

“Let’s call Cinna!”

They dart out of the room. It’s hard to hate my prep team.

They’re such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know

they’re sincerely trying to help me.

I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse

to retrieve my robe. But this Cinna, my stylist, will surely

make me remove it at once. Instead my hands go to my

hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told

to leave alone. My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother

so carefully arranged. My mother. I left her blue dress and

shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about 

retrieving them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home. 

Now I wish I had.

The door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters.

I’m taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists

they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and

surgically altered they’re grotesque. But Cinna’s closecropped

hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He’s in a simple 

black shirt and pants. The only concession to self alteration

seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied

with a light hand. It brings out the flecks of gold in his

green eyes. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their

hideous fashions, I can’t help thinking how attractive it looks.

“Hello, Katniss. I’m Cinna, your stylist,” he says in a quiet

voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol’s affectations.

“Hello,” I venture cautiously.

“Just give me a moment, all right?” he asks. He walks

around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every

inch of it with his eyes. I resist the impulse to cross my arms

over my chest. “Who did your hair?”