So here you are, Mr. Bieber, standing on your own little stage, under spotlights (exactly where you should be) and seemingly aloof to the tourists milling beneath on the floor of Madame Tussauds.

I’m not actually a belieber, but just knowing that you’re going to breeze in and out of our lives—leaving on March 4 for wherever it is you’re going—I had to pay a visit, witness your magic for myself.

I’m surprised by your unblemished skin and small stature. You’re just a baby and, yet, those eyelashes that can be seen from the last row in the largest arena have teenage girls losing their minds, while the music industry rolls onto its back, waiting for you to scratch its belly, sing another song. I would never do something so insane as to compare you to The Beatles, but I’m pretty sure Depeche Mode wrote “Personal Jesus” about you, even if you weren’t born at the time.

That’s why I’m so confused about everyone stopping to be photographed with Will Smith, Eva Longoria, Angelina Jolie and Brad, as if you’re not even here. And Britney? Why is anyone posing with her?

Maybe it’s just an older crowd. Music and looks aside, they obviously don’t know about your charitable efforts—or that your recent tweet to an Ottawa woman in need of a lung transplant reached your 16.5 million Twitter followers, some of whom registered as new organ donors. Oh, here comes someone. She looks happy.