Camille removes that sun-blocking eye-guard thing she sleeps with because she's a nineteenth-century grande dame of some kind, and voices over, "I woke up this morning and I don't know what's going on, but my mouth is, like, super, super-swollen and it hurts." Ooooh, a mouth stuffed with karma. Sounds painful. So that's the taste of having your cake and trying to eat it, too.
Camille wanders around the house looking for someone to feel real, real bad for her. It's not April, who sits at the kitchen table and won't even make eye contact (because, I mean, look at her...SHE'S HIDEOUS), and it's not Mercedes, who kicks us to a confessional and underexplains, "Camille is having fat lips. She had an allergic reaction to something." But to what, besides her own toxic personality? It is never explained. But I guess she is having, as Mercedes puts it, "fat lips." Though what's kind of awesome is that if she ever wanted to be a jazz musician, all she would have to do is take her worst physical malady and attach it to her last name, and she'd be Fat Lips McDonald. (Oh, wow. Is that the secret ingredient for making up your jazz name? Mercedes would be Lupus Scelba-Shorte. Does that work?)
Jay "You Da" Manuel "Now, Dog" meets the ladies at their next shoot, introducing them by saying, "Today is a bit of a challenge, because what we're gonna do are beauty shots." In beauty shots, we learn (unless you already knew, which means you are, in fact, Tyra Banks, in which case "Hi, Tyra! You're so pretty! Can I have a bag of money, please?"), the shots are in extreme close-up and "it's all about emoting with your eyes." We meet the photographer, Bill Heuberger, a '70s porn star (I'm guessing, of course, but the moustache is a dead giveaway), whose last name is pronounced "Hi, Burger," like what Camille's pickles and ketchup said to the missing remainder of her lunch. Bill tells them, "It's what inside that's gonna make you pretty." Well then, I guess Fat Lips McDonald doesn't have to worry about having fat lips on the inside. Nevertheless, she asks to go last, and Jay grants her that privilege, because untreated and ambiguous allergic reactions tend to improve over time, in this doctor-free universe where you can be allergic to allergies. I'm certain that famed jazz legend of the steels drums, Dye Job Manuel, would agree.
Jay tells us that beauty shoots are among the hardest to do, because the viewer of the photo can read a lack of confidence. Certainly, Yoanna -- so self-assured even a narrative about her would be condescending to her heavenly self -- doesn't have this problem. Neither does Shandi, who poses flawlessly. The first bump comes from Mercedes, who tells us that the photographer (pronounced, oddly, as "pho-to-GRAPH-er," because lupus makes you lose your inherent sense of the phonetic) keeps making a clicking sound with his lips as he's taking the pictures (the pho-TO-graphs, I guess), which she found distracting. All hail the kickin' jazz flute of OCD Heuberger.