“Twelve?” I stop wrapping and take in the stash of products this woman demanded. Foundation, three types of concealer, fake eyelashes, lip plumper… It would be an overbearing gift even for a grown woman. But for a kid? She might as well buy her daughter a one-way ticket to low self-esteem, with a side trip to therapy.

“Are you sure about all this?” I ask tactfully. “She’s so young, these products are really meant for someone older.”

The woman presses her lips in a thin line. “The sooner she starts making the most of herself, the better. And don’t get me started on her weight—”

“No!” I blurt, horrified.

The woman blinks. “No?”

I take a deep breath. “She’s just a kid. She’s got plenty of time in future to feel insecure about her looks,”—‘No thanks to you,’ I silently add—“So how about you just focus on her having fun right now?”

I pluck down some fun eyeshadow palettes and lip kits: bright, poppy colors with some sparkle to the shades. “Here, if she wants to try makeup, then start with these. For fun,” I say again with a glare. “Not because there’s anything wrong with how she looks.”

The woman just stares at me. “You’re refusing to sell me the other stuff?”

“Not refusing. Advising,” I reply, remembering myself in time. I flash a big grin, crossing my fingers I don’t get a write-up from management about the customer always being right. Again.

The woman checks her watch, impatient now. “Oh, fine, just give me that stuff,” she says, snapping her fingers. “Maybe my genes will show through soon enough.”

“Maybe,” I agree, ringing her up and sending her away with the age-appropriate stuff—and a prayer for her poor daughter.

Don’t worry, kid: It gets better. And if it doesn’t, legal emancipation is always an option.

“You seem pretty happy for someone who just talked herself out of a giant commission.” My friend-slash-coworker, Lorelei, appears at my side.

“What was I supposed to do?” I protest. “Being a kid is hard enough without all that, too.”

Lorelei smirks. As always, her blunt cut bangs and winged eyeliner make her look tres chic, but her secret is, she’s a marshmallow under all that French girl fashion. “I don’t know… Take the money like the rest of us?”

“It’s the principle of the matter!”

She laughs. “Principles don’t pay rent.”

I wince. “You’re right about that. And they definitely aren’t buying studio space, ingredients, and packing materials,” I add, retrieving my workbag from under the counter. I open it, revealing the real reason I’m toiling away at Fleishman’s: Because it’s just a stepping-stone to where I really want to be.

On the counter, not behind it. And not in the exotic dancer sense of the word. No, my dream is that one day fancy stores like this are stocking my makeup line. The zero-cruelty, vegan, 100% fabulous line that I’ve been working on all year now, mixing and blending and packing in the corner of my apartment, imagining the day when customers waltz out of the store with my makeup—and a massive smile—on their faces.