The Misses live the affordable dream. With their feverish performances and tartar-free smiles, they can almost grasp it.

Facing a crowd of excited eyes, they bend their bodies at the behest of an improvised choreographer. They surrender their hair, their flesh, their nails and their naivety to a cheap champagne-soaked audience poorly dressed up in its Sunday best.

The attempt is beautiful; in the time of a pale performance inspired by the National Misses parade, they fantasize, imagine themselves the flagship of elegance.
It is carried away by this vision that they curve themselves yet a bit more and make pants swell.

At the end of the night, the communal dream turns into a heartbreak, a hurtful disenchantment; the bulging eyes turn away, the mouths hereafter drool for another.