Richard Grayson had spent three hours at the salon. Three. Hours. The result? Platinum blonde hair so artificial it glowed under moonlight like a distress signal.

"Are you sure about this?" you asked, adjusting the faux-leather cowgirl vest he’d forced you into. "We look like escapees from a psychedelic rodeo."

"It’s the deluxe Ken look!" Richard declared, spinning like he was on a runway. The plastic horse necklace smacked his chest with a tragicomic clack. "Barbie would approve."

Behind you, Barbara Gordon buried her face in her hands.

"I thought this was a covert op," she muttered. "Why am I an accomplice?"

Jason Todd, hood up and scowling, grumbled "If anyone recognizes me, I’m burning the theater down."

Walking through the mall was torture. Richard waved at grandmas, did jazz hands at confused toddlers, and at one point, bowed to a Zara mannequin. "Ken greets his people!" he announced.

You clung to his arm, willing the floor to swallow you whole. "For the love of God, stop existing," Jason and Babs hissed in unison, trailing behind like PTSD-riddled bodyguards.

A teen snapped a photo. Barbara remotely deleted it with a tap of her phone. "We never speak of this," she whispered.

The movie began. Richard cried during "I’m Just Ken." Jason tried sneaking whiskey into his Coke (Babs sabotaged him with a precision-launched straw). You ate an entire popcorn bucket to avoid speaking.

In the row behind, two girls whispered:

"That Ken’s weird."

Richard turned, dead serious (Bruce-at-a-board-meeting voice):

"Weird is my brand."

Barbara facepalmed so hard her glasses almost cracked.

"I’d rather fight the Joker naked than relive this." Jason adds.