And that's sad. The kind of sad that sits heavy in your chest when you acknowledge it. The kind of sad that makes me wonder what it would have been like to grow up believing I was worth something.
So when I get to the image consultant's office, this is what I tell her. I'm an everyday girl doing everyday things who wants to feel pretty. Not some Instagram model, not a corporate executive—just someone who deserves to look in the mirror and see something other than disappointment staring back.
After a little interview that narrowed down my style—90's grunge meets Gen Z contradictions—we plan a wardrobe that works for Idaho Falls.
Short summer skirts that hit mid-thigh—lengths I've never dared before—paired with easy, breezy dresses that show off legs I didn't realize I could claim as an asset. Casual crop-top tees in soft cotton, the kind that look effortless but feel intentional. Chunky sandals and boots that work for trails and coffee shops.
Fall outfits with low-cut designer jeans in every shade—dark indigo, faded black, stone-washed grey—all sitting just below my hip bones. The consultant points out my abs in the fitting room mirror, tracing the lines with her finger. I literally didn't even know I had cut abs until that moment.
She pairs them with cropped sweaters in blush pink, warm gray, and cream. Oversized hoodies in black and tan. Soft leggings that actually fit.
For winter she focuses on layering. Long-sleeve cotton tees in black, white, and heather grey that fit close without clinging. Oversized graphic t-shirts to throw on top—vintage band tees, abstract designs, witty slogans that look cool without trying too hard.
I grab some Golden Goose sneakers—the distressed ones that look pre-broken-in. A pair of chunky Balenciagas because everyone has them and honestly they're comfortable as hell. Canvas high-tops in white and another pair in black.
The personal shopper tries to push weatherproof ankle boots and knee-high leather boots "for the Idaho Falls snow," but I just get a pair of chunky lug-sole boots that'll work and don't make me feel like I'm cosplaying someone's mother.
In the coats department, I get a black peacoat that nips in at my waist, a cropped silver puffer jacket, and a long wool coat in charcoal grey that makes me feel like a princess when I spin.
The consultant brings out one statement piece. The little black dress with edge. Exactly what a young woman with brand new long platinum hair needs.
Mid-thigh. Strapless. Plunging neckline.
She pairs it with a vintage leather jacket—oversized, distressed, covered in patches and pins—and chunky combat boots.
The final purchase is activewear. Because let's face it, I spend more time running and at the gym than any reasonable person should. Hiding, obviously. This is how one accidentally gets cut abs without even noticing—anxiety and avoidance sculpting my body while my brain remains a disaster.
But it doesn't have to stay that way. I could actually give a fuck about my workouts now. Set goals and shit. Track progress.Care whether I'm improving or just going through the motions to kill time until I can justify going to bed.
And wouldn't it be nice to look pretty while I did that? To catch my reflection in the gym mirrors and not immediately look away? To feel like I belong on the running trail and in the yoga studio instead of like an imposter hiding among people who actually have their lives together?
Yes. I decide it would. So I buy eight outfits for running, eight outfits for the gym, and eight for yoga. Even though I don't let the laundry pile up anymore, I would like to have one extra for each activity just in case.
I leave the store wearing the black summer mini-dress paired with a vintage band tee knotted at my waist—some obscure metal band I've never even heard of—and the chunky combat boots that make me feel like I could kick someone's ass if needed.
Paired with the platinum hair and a new oversized, black leather Frye bag covered in silver studs, the whole look screams "don't fuck with me" in a way that makes me feel powerful.
I like it.
My final appointment is makeup.
I walk in with mis-matched drug-store products collecting dust at the bottom of my bag—and walk out with Charlotte Tilbury everything.
Lipsticks in shades I'd never have dared try before.
Foundation that actually matches my skin.
Highlighter that catches the light in a way that makes my cheekbones look sculpted rather than sharp with hunger or anxiety.
Brushes so soft they feel like nothing against my skin.
The makeup artist shows me techniques I awkwardly mimic, trying to remember every step.
I don't get room service for my last night in Vegas. I go to dinner. By myself.
Not hidden in a corner booth. Not with a book as a shield. Just me, dressed in new clothes, wearing new makeup, sitting at a table in the center of a crowded restaurant.
The weight of eyes on me still makes my skin crawl. The thought of being judged, found lacking, still tightens my throat. The fear that I'm taking up space I don't deserve still whispers in the back of my mind.
