Stacy, 176cm of De Pijpnightlife

Height, first. At 176 cm Stacy clears most of the crowd in a De Pijp bar, and in heels she looks the doorman straight in the eye. People make room without being asked. Then the hair: long, near-black brown, sleek under neon. Then the grin, which tells you she is about to suggest something you did not plan and will not regret.

She is twenty-two, slim, with brown eyes, and bold in every sense of the word. Sultry when the lights go down. Spontaneous always: a comedy club at eleven, a street food stall at one, a photo walk at three because the light on the wet tram rails is too good to miss. Plans with Stacy are drafts. The final version is always better. Boredom is the only thing she refuses to put up with. She speaks English at full speed and expects you to keep up, then laughs when you do.

Street photography is how she sees the city. Strangers in doorways, reflections in shop glass, a neon sign bleeding into a puddle. She shoots fast and never asks anyone to pose. Tiffany works the same beat across town in Centrum. Stand-up comedy is her other night habit, small rooms, new material, and she laughs loudest at the jokes that should not work. Violetta is the other comedy regular on the roster. Winters she vanishes to the mountains to snowboard and comes back with a goggle tan and very strong opinions about powder.

Her style is edgy metallic nightlife glam. Rhinestones, white lace, turquoise shine, a look built for a club door and a camera flash. It is not subtle, and it is not supposed to be. Book Stacy for a night with no script and plenty of stories at the end of it, with rates from €180 per hour. Wear something you can move in. She will not be staying in one place for long.

Heads, comedy club. Tails, photo walk. Stacy flips a coin on a De Pijp bar top and then does both anyway. Comedy comes first: a tiny room above a pub on new material night, jokes that sink and jokes that fly, and she laughs hardest at the ones that nearly work. Next, street food from a late stall, eaten standing, while she scouts the block for a shot. The photo walk runs through wet streets toward the Amstel, neon pooled on the asphalt, a cyclist frozen mid-turn, a doorman who never knew he was in frame. Around two she wants height, a rooftop or a hotel bar with a view, to look down at the lights like a snowboarder at the top of a run.