#whoispoly

PAINTED DESERT

The 8am knock on the door comes without warning.

Of course, I woke up with the sun hours ago to study the two outfits Ana laid out for me. I've switched back and forth from one to the other and back again nearly one hundred times since sunrise.

Do I pick the one Ana says makes the most sense, she is a stylist after all.... or do I pick the one that makes me feel most comfortable?

Ana's idea of the perfect Coachella outfit includes a long, sheer, floral duster over a strappy crop top and shorts so short and lacy they feel more like lingerie than anything I'd wear out in public. The bag she slings across my body is big enough to carry a small child and the fringe hangs down to my knees, but the pair of pricey booties she pulls from the back of her closet, and almost didn't because they are 'last season', I fall in love with upon first sight.

"Absolutely no gold foil tattoos," she demands, forcing me to look her in the eye and promise on my life. "Seriously P, they are so over."

"My God, fine. No gold foil tattoos."

Obviously, Ana's perfect outfit is from Ana's closet because she can't seem to find anything at all in mine that makes the cut.

I give her a long speech about wanting to be comfortable versus stylish and the girl literally falls to the floor, appalled I could ever say... and even worse, believe, such a thing to be important.

"Palila, honey, no."

My dissatisfied look tells her she will never win this battle, so she pulls herself from the floor and forces an outfit from my wardrobe.

She lays the options neatly side by side across my bed, "well, I can't make the decision for you, but I know you will pick the right one. You have more fashion sense than you realize."

She arranges the fringe perfectly in an attempt to make the sell before leaving me alone with the two outfits and one important choice.

I hope she doesn't think her little mind game will work on me. I, of course, have already decided on comfort.

I pick up the outfit from my closet; my aunt's buttery soft overall shorts she'd held onto since 1989, swearing one day they would be back in style.

Ana is surprisingly kind enough to wake up early to help me get ready despite discovering the choice I'd made and luckily, it is too early for her to make any snide remarks about dishonoring her professional advice.

She kneels before me and rolls up the legs of the shorts, 'to bring them into the 21st century'.

I change the white, v-neck fitted tee from my closet to the strappy crop top from Ana's after she makes her case about sweating through the tight shirt and pit stains. Sometimes compromise is a good thing.

She pulls out every ring and long necklace I own and with every piece she adds, I take one off.

"Stop that!" She slaps at my hand, "there's no such thing as too much jewelry."

"Wasn't it Coco Chancel who said you should take one accessory off before you leave the house?," I ask, throwing her fashion lessons back in her face.

"Oh, so now you want to act like you know something about fashion," she snaps playfully, rolling her eyes while draping another necklace over my head.

Too much jewelry has a way of making me feel I am suffocating when the temperature climbs above 80 degrees so when she is no longer paying attention, I settle for the one ring I always wear on my middle finger and leave the discarded necklaces in a pile on my dresser.