The Sulking Fashionista

She can't wear A-lines,
she can't wear scoop-necks,
she has a warm skin tone but likes cool metallics.
This woman is hopeless,
she's doughy-faced and
(she says she's fifty, and I believe her, because it shows, and she hasn't aged well)
doesn't wear foundation well and refuses
to do anything with her graying hair. She says she dyed it at home,
and it's obvious because the roots are growing out
and she doesn't have full grey coverage.

She's my first client this month, bought the biggest package
and this should make me happy,
but she's the first client of the month and I'm already depressed—
why did she come to a stylist if she didn't want to be styled?
If she keeps telling me how to do my job,
keeps insisting she knows her colors
(is she a Certified Color Analyst? no, she isn't, but if I asked her that sarcastically I won't get paid)
and what she wears best,
which she doesn't,
obviously,
because everything she pointed out she liked were the least figure-flattering
pieces I have ever suffered through.

She refuses to wear Jacobs, refuses to buy Dior, refuses to set foot inside Macy's,
refuses to "support soulless corporations," and why should they dictate what she wears
well ec-freaking-scuse you! What were you expecting?
Thrift stores? For me to make you tea?
If you didn't want an image makeover why are you here?

Now she's looking at me,
glaring actually,
like I stomped on the tiny little feet of her tiny little dog
(it's just a cotton ball with eyes as far as I can tell).

Oops. I said that last part out loud, didn't I?