Carefully examining every single pore and imperfection on your face, he draws.
After twenty minutes, he’s not done.  You notice sweat rolling off his forehead.  Sometimes he’ll begin a sentence, frown, and fall silent as he refocuses on the drawing board.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a dark figure in a wide-brimmed black hat.  His coat collar is turned up to hide his face.  He looks exactly like the fellow on the “Neighborhood watch: we call the police” sign in your neighborhood.  He observes you.

After thirty minutes, the artist is still sweating.  After forty minutes, he fakes a smile, grunts “you’re done!” and turns to his cash register.  You walk around to take a look at the drawing.
It’s not even close.  There’s your hair, kind of, and that earlobe could almost be called your earlobe.  But everything else is off by a mile.  Your cheeks are too high, eyes too big, nose too broad.  Your mouth has taken on a kind of evil clown smile.

The suspicious fellow in the wide-brimmed black hat has vanished into the crowd.  You notice the old artist at the next table shaking his head at you in disappointment.  It appears you chose badly.

The young artist says: “five hundred dollars, please.”

The End.