It wouldn't do to hold a pity party, they knew. They'd faced far worse things than minor embarrassments in a classroom setting, and there was work to be done. So the Tailor gave their face a firm rub, uncomfortably aware of how their hair had come loose from the earlier dousing and now hung in their eyes. They tried to push it back for the nth time, to little avail. Tried also not to scowl, with equally poor results.

If they were being really, painfully honest, they were feeling like maybe they shouldn't be here. But to admit as much was to admit to being a failure, so they didn't say that.

"I'll survive, even if my pride's gone through the ringer. Next week will be better." If they said it enough, they could make it true. And then, with sheepishness, they admitted, "I've never particularly thrived in the classroom setting, so this is probably par for the course."