Before I know it, the salesgirl is ushering me into the dressing room with an armload of clothes. I spend what feels like hours trying on outfit after outfit, parading out for Ivy's critical eye.
"Hmm, I don't love that one," she says, wrinkling her nose at a slinky black dress. "Next."
I obediently retreat back behind the curtain, shimmying out of the dress and into a pair of high-waisted trousers and a silk camisole. When I reemerge, Ivy claps her hands delightedly.
"That's the one! You look so chic. We'll take it. Actually, just keep it on. It looks better than what I brought over."
This Ivy is so different from the Ivy I've been treated to up to this point, and I'm dizzy with whiplash.
The process repeats at what seems like a dozen different stores throughout the afternoon. Shoes, dresses, blouses, skirts, pants... by the time we hit the fourth boutique, I'm fairly certain I've tried on more outfits today than I have in my entire life.
