It feels good to be wearing new clothes. I chose the orange-and-yellow halterneck dress, with a pair of black strappy sandals. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the hotel lobby and at first I thought I was looking through a window at someone else. The blonde highlights shimmer as I move slowly from side to side, catching myself under the myriad of lights. I’m usually wary of using stylists in foreign countries, but it’s like she looked into me, and saw who I really am, and gave me the look to reflect it. I remember the little card she handed me at the till, scribbling her name on it for me so I’d know who to use again. She gave me a look too. Appraising. Intrigued. Perhaps I’ll contact her. See if she fancies having cocktails with me. She looked like a cocktail sort. From what I’ve seen of the city so far, the styles fall into two distinct camps – if you exclude the tourists, of course: that kind of industrial, grunge freaknik vibe, with the crazy colours and the piercings and the tattoos; and then the other vibe, the more Parisian-type style. I wonder if the Berliners would be offended by the comparison. Designer dresses and expensive highlights. Perfect nails and Instagrammable entertainment habits. I could’ve chosen either way, but I am sick of feeling grubby and cheap. I don’t want to pour my own stein and wolf down bratwurst. I have gone for elegance, but just like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, when she’s finally managed to get herself a fancy dress and a classy chignon, I am not what I look like in the mirror.

The hairdresser has chosen to see a certain version of me, a version that I have chosen to reveal to her. The real me is much more difficult to define. I tilt my head, give myself a small, coy smile. The version of me smiles back. I am ready.