She wore very conservative, plain black heels (neither kitten nor stiletto) and a long, London Fog-type silky trenchcoat, belted firmly at the waist -- 1990s business classic. Across her pale, creased face were unremarkable spectacles, and a pinched expression. She looked like a bitch in its truest tradition -- unpleasant, uncompromising, and maddeningly right in every instance.

Yet, her hair. It was cut like a doll's, two inches past her jaw, ends curving inwards perfectly, with short, precious bangs ... and dyed the dull, Gothic black of a delicious, sulky, sexually outraged sixteen-year-old girl.

I looked at her again.

You confuse me, I thought. And I like it.