'Hoorah!' I cheer, heading back to the wigs.

'Holy Mary!' Zo hisses, stopping me in my tracks.

That's her nickname for pierced people, on account of all their holes/perforations. I discreetly turn and find a face peppered with metallic acne glowering at me from behind the counter. Even the girl's ears are tattooed and she has what looks like a corkscrew skewered through her bottom lip.

'Bet she's handy to have at parties!' Zo notes.

'Wouldn't be any good at blowing up balloons, though,' I wince.

Heaving herself out of her deadbeat slump, Holy Mary introduces herself: 'I'm Vixen and I'll be your transformer today.'

Her delivery is pure morgue menace. She obviously wants to get the ordeal of transforming us over and done with as quick as possible and wastes no time a.s.signing us a celebrity lookalike each: 'You I could do as the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,' she addresses me. 'And you' she squints at Zo 'Beyonce in Goldmember.'

We exchange a dubious glance.

She sighs and tries again. 'Catherine Zeta-Jones and Jennifer Lopez?'

She's still not looking beyond our natural coloring. Hasn't she seen the wig changes in Charlie's Angels? Surely in Hollywood anything is possible.

'I want to be Marilyn!' Zo a.s.serts.

Vixen rotates her tongue stud and gives me a look as if to say: If you tell me you want to be Whoopi Goldberg I'm going to resign.

I try the diplomatic approach. 'Your suggestions are great but we were thinking more of cla.s.sic Hollywood stars.'

'That's kinda old,' she sneers. 'But if that's what you want.' She thuds a hefty Book of Looks on to the counter and pushes it towards Zo.

'What about Carmen Miranda?'

'Would you want a bowl of fruit on your head?' Zo counters, not enjoying this girl's att.i.tude.

'I take these two beauties!' A heavy Russian accent announces. It belongs to a sixty-something man with a lush sweep of white hair and expertly shaped eyebrows. Sending Vixen to prepare the Harry Potter costumes for the dry cleaners, he introduces himself as the shop owner, Boris, and apologizes for his niece.

'She's very skilled at the make-up but lacks charm,' he admits. 'Now! Let me see.' He studies our faces carefully. Something about his manner and the low rumble of his voice has us entranced. 'You want heyday movie stars, yes?'

We nod, hypnotized by his violet-lensed eyes.

'You would make wonderful Liz Taylor, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,' he strokes my jaw.

I purr appreciatively, 'Oooh yes, that would be lovely.'

'And you have Marilyn's curves, that is for sure.' He gives Zo an appreciative once-over. 'You leave rest to me!'

Zo claps her hands together with delight as he flips the Book of Looks around to face her. 'Okay honey, which Marilyn you want to be?'

First up is the iconic white flare-up dress from Seven Year Itch.

'Too obvious?' Zo voices her concern.

'Little,' Boris acknowledges.

Next, pink satin and diamonds.

'Too Madonna, Material Girl,' Zo frowns.

'What about an outfit from Some Like It Hot?' I suggest, remembering the Hotel Del.

'The nude beaded dress?' Boris's eyes light up. 'I think it will stretch.'

'Oooh yes!' Zo enthuses, envisioning herself sheathed and shimmering.

'Maybe you want to do mini-movie scene together? I could make you good Tony Curtis,' he tells me, 'you have his clear eyes, black hair, we could do a little dimple here ...'

I bat his hand away as he goes to smudge brown eyeshadow on my chin.

'I want to be a girl!' I protest.

'Oh go on, La!' Zo begs, taken with the idea. 'We could show Helen how funny would that be? She could put a picture of us up at work!'

'Can't you come back and do that with Todd?' I frown as Boris tries to set a captain's cap on my head.

'No?' he looks plaintive.

'No!' I pout. 'Isn't there something we could do together as two females?'

We all pause for a moment and then Boris suddenly whoops, 'I've got it!'

He swishes down the rails and then flourishes two floor-length red sequined gowns: 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes!'

'Of course!' Zo cheers, grabbing my arm. 'You get to be Jane Russell!'

'Gentlemen also love the ladies with the black hair,' Boris winks at me.

'Sold!' I cheer.

'We wouldn't even need a wig for you,' he says, sweeping my hair over to the side and flouncing it up, 'We set you just so.'

'This is so exciting!' Zo squeaks. 'What do we do first?'

'Take off your clothes!' Boris announces.

I knew there'd be a catch.

'Or at least your tops.' I can't believe he's trying to negotiate a strip. Then he hands us robes and explains that he doesn't want to get any make-up on our nice outfits. Fair enough.

'You want I play you the movie while we do the make-up?'

'Oh yes! And can we sing, 'We're Just Two Little Girls from Little Rock!' Zo requests.

'Of course,' Boris complies. 'Whatever makes you happy.'

As Boris pastes on a mask of foundation he tells us stories of Hollywood's first make-up artist George Westmore and how his six sons all followed his brushstrokes to create a dynasty of creative geniuses heading up the make-up departments at Paramount, Warner Brothers, 20th Century Fox et al.

'They were responsible for taking Rita Hayworth's natural black hair and make it strawberry blonde!' he begins in his stilted accent, continuing with revelations that Shirley Temple's ringlets were supplemented by hair bought from a local wh.o.r.ehouse and how Errol Flynn turned up drunk to every make-up seating for the swashbuckling flick Captain Blood and even resorted to injecting oranges with vodka when Perc Westmore confiscated his bottles of whiskey, disguised as hair tonic preparations!

As Boris highlights our browbones he tells of how Marlene Dietrich taught Ern Westmore a nifty alternative to heavy black greasepaint she held a lit match under the base of a china saucer until a smudge of pure carbon collected, then mixed in a little baby oil and used it as shadow around her eye!

'I love all this stuff!' Zo enthuses as Boris applies what look like the wings of a blackbird to her lids. 'Tell me more.'

'Well, George Westmore was first to invent false lashes he clipped tiny pieces of hair from a wig and pasted them on one strand at a time! That was back in 1917!'

'This is so relaxing,' I sigh, eyes closed, as Boris turns his attention to my lashes. I've never been able to apply them to myself so I can't wait to see how they look. Maybe I'll keep them on to see Elliot and flutter him into submission. 'Have you ever had anyone fall asleep in a make-up chair?' I ask drowsily.

'Many times.'

'What about the Westmores?' Zoe prompts.

Boris chuckles as he tells us that Mont Westmore once went to Gloria Swanson's home to do make-up before filming and found her still in her bed... 'He was too afraid to wake her she had such a dark temper so he did the whole thing while she slept!'

'So movie stars really do wake up with a full face of make-up!' I laugh.

'Still, please!' Boris instructs, now carefully lining my lips.

'Wow, Lara you look stunning!'

'No peeking please till I finish,' Boris scolds.

Zo leans back in her chair, waiting her turn.

'Even in her eighties Ms Russell was a most striking woman,' Boris informs us. 'Smart, bold...'

'Who do you think was the most beautiful of them all?' Zoe wants to know.

Boris thinks for a moment.

'For me? Bacall,' he decides. 'Lauren Bacall.'

'That smoky voice!' I just manage to squeeze out the words before Boris applies layer upon layer of lipstick so red and thick and luscious I suspect he's using strawberry Jam.

Boris finishes Zo's face and our respective hairdos with precision flair then announces: 'Now the dresses.'

'They weigh a ton!' I gasp, confusing the plunging V-neckline with the high side-split on the leg.

'They say Ginger Rogers's gowns were so heavily beaded that they made her feet bleed when she danced.'

'Ouch!'

'Sequins is okay, just a little rash!' he smiles, handing us our jewelry two diamond bracelets on one arm, three for the other. 'Turn around, I put on necklace.'

Again diamonds, surrounded by rubies. We pat the jewels flat.

'Earrings ...' he continues.

I feel my lobes squish to the size of bottle tops from the metal clasp.

'You'll get used to it,' Boris consoles, sensing my pain. Then he takes Zo's hand and slides a ruby ring into place, looking for all the world like he's her adoring groom.

'One final touch ...'

He hands us each a red sequined cap sprouting white feathers, securing them on our crowns with a pin.

His eyes shine with pride. 'Ready for your close-up?'

Zo takes my hand and squeezes it tight before nodding. 'First close your eyes!' he instructs as he guides us to the full-length mirror. 'Now open!'

I have a bit of difficulty as my false lashes have intertwined, lacing my lids closed but I can hear Zo practically choking with delight. Boris rushes to my aid and carefully prises open my eyes. I get a rush of hysteria at the sight of the glittering vamp before me and twist around to admire the sumptuous alien form that has invaded my body.

'We look like real women!' Zo giggles, hands traversing her ever more exaggerated curves.

'Sirens!' Boris corrects. 'What man could resist you now?'

He's got a point the dresses seem to have a powerful s.e.xual presence of their own, demanding a certain sa.s.siness from the wearer. I find my shoulders hoiking back, a knee jutting forward and place a come-and-get-it-boys hand on my hip. How I wish Elliot could see me like this. In a whole new light...

'Look at you blonde!' I exclaim, finally tearing my eyes away from my alter ego to gawp at a barely recognizable Zo.

'Look at you bouffant!' Zo reels at my big hair.

'I love it!' Gently I touch my roller-set. Amazingly it still feels like hair despite all the spray. 'We look properly glamorous!'

'You're a genius!' Zo plants a perfect red cupid's bow lip-print on Boris's cheek.

He looks dotingly back at her. 'You are something special, lady.'

'I know it says no photographs with your own camera but can we just take a quick one with you?' I plead.

'How can I deny you anything?' He gives a little bow.

I scrabble through my bag, emptying out the contents on the counter map, scrumpled tissues, make-up, receipts, plane ticket, earring I've been missing for years, half-eaten Tootsie Roll and a spatula from an Immac kit (why?!).

'It's in here somewhere ... Here we go!'

We lean in and grin as Boris instructs us to: 'Say sleaze!'

As I shove the mess back into my bag, Zo remains lost in wonder at her reflection.

'This is what I wanted, Lara. To feel like a movie star, just once.'

I stop what I'm doing to look at her, feeling my heart swell again and affection radiate from my eyes there is something so rewarding about seeing your friends blissfully happy.