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“I hate it, thanks,” I mumbled through my hands.
“You’ve got this, Daughter.”
But now, with my grandma underwear squashed by the tightULTIMATE FUN TIME DON’T MESS WITH THIS COWGIRLjeans, the only thing I’m sure I have is a wedgie.
“These Western jeans are a winner,” Mushu says. “You look very much like a cowgirl, in the best possible way.”
Despite myself, I have to agree. The jeans are undeniably flattering, making my hips look curvier and my legs look longer. And, just as advertised, the stitching is smooth, making the material feel comfortable against my skin. All I need to do is lose the grandma undies and this will be the comfiest pair of jeans I’ve worn. How come I’ve never thought of getting a pair of Western jeans for myself? “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go pay.”
“Uh, you didn’t think we were done, did you?” Mushu says.
I stare at her with growing trepidation. “Um, I kind of did, actually?”
“Mulan, Mulan, Mulan,” Mushu says again, this time with an exaggerated sigh. “We’re only getting started.”
“We are?”
“Oh yes. We didn’t drive all this way to Wild Coyote to just get a pair of jeans. We’re here for an entire LOOK. We’re here to turn you from boring finance bro to Yankee cowgirl.”
After that, there’s no stopping Mushu. As I stand helplessly in the dressing room, Mushu drapes more and more things over me. First, a push-up bra so aggressive that I swear my breasts are shoved right up below my chin, followed by a tight checkered shirt. Despite the fact that the checkered shirt is long-sleeved and barely shows any skin, it’s so figure-hugging that it leaves nothing to the imagination. I hug myself, feeling oddly naked in the mirror.
“Gosh, look at the lift that bra is giving you,” Mushu says. “I’m getting myself one for that Women Entrepreneurs banquet that’s happening in about two weeks’ time.”
“Oh! Did you score an invite?” I say. Mushu has been talking about the banquet for almost half a year now.
“Not yet, but I know a couple of the organizers and I’ve been dropping hints to them about getting me on the list, so any day now,” Mushu says. Although she says this in her trademark flippant way, I sense a trace of insecurity behind her confident mask. I know how much Mushu would love to attend a banquet for women entrepreneurs.
Mushu gives herself a little shake and focuses her attention back on me. “Anyway, you look amazing.”
“Are you sure about this? The shirt’s so tight I can barely lift my arms.”
“Arm movement is so overrated,” Mushu says.
I try to lift my arms and get as far as my waist before the fabric threatens to rip. I glare at Mushu.
“Oh, all right, I’ll get a shirt that’s one size up. But it’s not going to make your boobs look as good, though.”
“You know what, that’s a trade-off I’m willing to make,” I call out.
As it turns out, the next size up is still really figure hugging, but I am at least able to move around freely in this one. “Is it really supposed to hug my curves like that?” I shudder at the thought of walking around in such a revealing outfit. I’m used to straitlaced navy and dark gray suits, clothes that are designed to make finance bros take me seriously, not see me as anything vaguely attractive. This shirt and these jeans are definitely a far cry from my usual office wear. Then Mushu adds a bright red kerchief around my neck and drapes a light blue denim jacket over my shoulders and I breathe a sigh of relief over the extra coverage that the jacket gives me.
“I look ridiculous,” I say, staring at my reflection.
“Only because the look isn’t complete yet.” With that, Mushu plops something heavy on my head.
It’s a cowgirl hat, because of course it is. It’s eggshell in color and has a brown feather sticking out of the left side, and I’m pretty sure I can’t go out in public wearing this outfit. “I—I can’t—”
“Wait, wait!” Mushu cries. “It’s not ready yet.”
“It’s not?”
“All right, ready for the pièce de résistance?”
“No,” I say earnestly.
In answer, Mushu brandishes a pair of shockingly ornate cowgirl boots. “These are the highest-quality cowgirl boots. Made of calfskin, they are supersoft on the inside but are so strong they’ll withstand anything the Wild West can throw at you, including boulders rolling over your feet and snakebites. Assuming the snake’s on the outside of the boot, that is. If the snake’s inside your boot…” Mushu laughs, slapping my back. “Well, gotta check your boots for snakes every morning, okay?”
I swallow. “Snakes?”