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“My work requires me to be presentable in a social capacity." You explain. "Is there something that's not too restrictive...?”
“That can depend.” The man replied, pulling a pair of spectacles seemingly twisted from an antenna wire from his pocket. “Is this work in service, pleasure, business...?”
“I am an assistant." You slip into your specification briefly. “I organize, run numbers, memorize important information, manage inventory...”
“Ah.” He nods. “You work with the main office, I take it?”
“No.” You shake your head. “I am currently not in service.”
“Is that so?” He seemed contemplative, moving along behind the counter and gesturing for you to follow. “That opens up some options without their dress code.”
At a gap in the wooden countertop, he moves out onto the main floor, where only a few sparse racks were arranged, displaying what seemed to be more examples than garments ready to buy. You saw mostly leathers, with roughspun cloth underneath, or synthfabrics on display next to natural fabrics. Some had minor embellishments on the buttons and lapels- some kind of hard organic material you couldn't place. It wasn't bone, at any rate.
In the corner, a gap had been left in the wall of shelves, creating a small booth space hidden from the door and the crowds outside. It had a mirror leaned up against one side, and a small stool for the person being measured to stand on. For a brief moment, you wonder who the dirty woman standing next to the man was, before you realize that it was <span class="mu-i">you</span>.
Of course, you knew your own face. It was virtually identical to that of the rest of your model line, and you had seen it in the waters before, but it had just been an image, there. When the face twitched in recognition, and focused on itself, you instantly feel slightly disconcerted at how the image is actually blinking and moving. Like the rest of your model, you had been created to be unobtrusive, but easy on the eyes, not an eyecatcher like the K-model. A firm jaw, and a rounded face that was pretty enough to not embarrass your owner in polite company, and yet generic in such a way that you would never upstage them. Brown hair came in an unsightly bird's nest down your neck, barely touching your shoulders.
Instantly, you frown, and pick at one of your would-be bangs. It was as long as the rest of your hair, of course, and had wound up plastered to the side by what you suspect was dried amniotic fluid.
“Is there a problem?” The tailor asks.
“No.” You let it drop. “I was just thinking that I need to have my hair bobbed. It's unseemly.”
“Ah.” He nods. “I'm told pulling the hair back is also popular with the actuary contingent these days, especially on the upper levels.” He offers.
“I don't know if that's where I'll wind up.” You reply, slightly warily.
