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Her makeup is her shield. When she puts on her foundation, she's making herself stronger. By the time bright red lipstick glides over her lips, she's invincible.
Heather Chandler does not need approval, but she craves it, begs for it without actually begging. She's powerful enough to get what she wants. She has all the boys in school drooling after her; too bad she couldn't give less of a shit. All the girls and whoever in between either hates her and reveres her, or loves her and envies her. She's her very own brand of perfect and beautiful. She loves the control being popular gives her. It's amazing how people will bend to her will so easily; she's worshipped - and only a Junior! - and the students of Westerburg high will obey her every beck and call. It's liberating. And boring.
Even so, Heather doesn't like herself. In fact, she is everything she loathes, from her fake smiles and laughs, to her fake personality and breasts. She, instead, pours her love into the façade she puts on every day; when her lipstick goes on, she goes on, turning beautiful and bitchy, narcissistic and knelt before. She brings herself down every day, and she takes others down with her.
Her prize is her mask. Every part of her, every last bit, went into making unbreakable, sexy, queen bitch Heather. What's left of her old self rears its ugly head when she's alone and faced with a mirror; still, she shoves it down, down, down. No one needs to know that she was once like everyone else. As far as anyone cares, she was born for popularity. As far as anyone knows, she was born into it.
Everyone loves her even if she doesn't, and she supposes that's not a bad thing. It's not like everyone doesn't do everything for her, anyway.