"How about this one? Or this?"
Draped over Harley's left arm is a heap of clothes, hanging from her right, a yellow sundress with stylized green and red flowers swirling up the skirt, dangling from her teeth, something poufy and even more garish.
Baby Doll hopes her disapproval is plain on her face. Relying on facial expressions to carry a meaning can be tough, because people are prone to behave disgustingly stupid around her and misinterpret everything. She's so small, surely she doesn't know what she wants, and maybe she's just pouting or constipated or lost.
Sure, she likes being spoiled like a child on occasion – and being pushed in a stroller has its upsides too – but if there's one thing she loathes it's people cooing at her, patting the ringlets she's taken so many pains with, or asking where her parents are.
That's where her chaperone comes in, someone to deal with shop clerks and carry her as needed.
"Wow," Harley marvels as Baby Doll steps out of the changing booth in a houndstooth dress with long blousy arms, "you look really pretty."
Pretty. Not cute, not adorable, not aww, what a pwecious wittle angel. Despite the girl's airheaded voice, her compliments never sound sugary and stupid, as if she can see Baby Doll's real age and not just her condition.
Baby Doll's skin feels flushed and dry beneath her makeup and she huffs as she walks past Harley to pick out another dress. This one, she'll definitely keep.