【饥饿游戏】19

R-i-i-i-p! I grit 1 my teeth as Venia, a woman with aqua hair
and gold tattoos 2 above her eyebrows 3, yanks a strip of Fabric 4
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 5 barely open when they talk? Why do the ends of
their sentences go up as if they’re asking a question? Odd vowels 6,
clipped words, and always a hiss 7 on the letter s . . . no
wonder it’s impossible not to mimic 8 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 9 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 10 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 11 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 12 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 13 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 14. 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 15
that first stings but then soothes 16 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 17 tweezers 18 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 19 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 20, you’re not horrible at all!” says Flavius encouragingly.
“Let’s call Cinna!”
They dart 21 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 22 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 23 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 24, and
surgically 25 altered they’re grotesque 26. 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 27 to self alteration 28
seems to be metallic 29 gold eyeliner that has been applied 30
with a light hand. It brings out the flecks 31 of gold in his
green eyes. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their
hideous 32 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 33 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?”