That is precisely what she does --because any kind of additional preening per se she finds unmerited. What she sees is not even an excuse for a girl of any kind, nothing but a boy in a dress --it's staring them both in the cephalic surface. His hair. His makeup. His glasses. He has such a long way to go and, honestly, that way isn't one she has any particular care to see him travel. Her impression is nothing motivated by the aesthetics of his own appearance at all; very selfish in its nature, really. Rather, the sight before her, she's sure, is the key to the alien she loves' affections. Well. Romantically hates, strictly speaking, but that's terminology to work out when she is actually around.

"A thousand boonbonds safe and secure in a troll Swiss financial depository" she confirms as she puts the mirror away again. "Outside of maybe a deeper driving force for our date given the current lack of film being available, I think everything's been accounted for." It's not as if, after all, there's going to be a party or anything. (Time shit sure is weird.)