“Won’t my bangs shift anyhow once I start moving?” I ask, glancing at the fan.

Again, silence.

“I’m not really used to the talent making demands,” hisses Tiffini, the fashion director for Dial magazine. She turns and glares at Mariska. Then she smiles sweetly at me. “We’ll do anything that makes you happy. You are, after all, the star!”

“Star, honey, why don’t you just let us make a decision?” Mariska says. “You shouldn’t really be concerning yourself with this.”

I sigh. I look at her and then at Mom. I shoot death rays at Tiffini. I close my eyes.

“Fine,” I mutter.

Everyone in the room goes back to squabbling. Should I have a flower in my hair, or a barrette? Should my lipstick be pale pink or nude? Peachy blush or rosy? Should my dress expose lots of cleavage or a little?

I’d like to say that I care. I’d like to tell you that I think I look prettier with pink lips and rosy blush. Or that I’d really prefer the barrette. But it’s useless to have an opinion. You want to dress me up in a bikini with my hair back in a ponytail? Fine. An evening gown with an updo? Whatever. Heck, if Marco wanted to paint blue streaks up and down my face and dress me in a muumuu, I’d probably agree, as long as everyone stopped fighting about it. Which would never happen. My entourage lives to argue.

Actually, a muumuu might look better than what I’m wearing right now. Someone had the bright idea to debut the latest masterpiece from the House of Valerio (huge, crazy-expensive fashion designer in Italy) on me. Unfortunately, the House of Valerio’s latest masterpiece just happens to be a frilly Pepto-Bismol-pink dress that I can’t move in. And it’s covered with ten thousand feathers.

I’m a giant pink chicken—yet everyone is concerned about my bangs.

Does this make any sense? Is anyone really going to be looking at the way my bangs are parted when the rest of me looks so ridiculous?

But I learned long ago that just because you’re the pop star whose record-breaking career pays everyone’s salaries doesn’t actually mean that anyone listens to you at all.

Five hours later, with my blush (peach),my lipstick (nude), my bangs (swept to the right) and my outfit (hideous) replaced with my normal costume for the first set, I’m standing backstage at Madison Square Garden, waiting to go on for the second-to-last show of my Simply Star autumn tour.