A little girl in a hot pink T-shirt looks up at me as if staring at a princess. “You’re so pretty! Can I take a selfie with you?” she asks.

“Of course!” I say, crouching down so my feathered headdress and star-spangled painted boobs fit into the picture, her little brother also squeezing in.

The girl, around 7 years old, beams for the camera.

“I’m sending that to my mom!” she shouts, immediately texting it.

Just another happy customer for me, the Scourge of New York City.

The painted ladies of Times Square have become Public Enemy No. 1 this summer. Gov. Andrew Cuomo says they remind him of the bad old days; Mayor Bill de Blasio immediately created a task force to try to ban them.

“It’s wrong. It’s just wrong,” tutted de Blasio.

I knew I had to join them.

So on Monday night, I stopped one of the performers, Saira, 29, after work. “Are you a desnuda?” I asked.

Turns out calling her ­“Naked Lady” in Spanish was a little too blunt.

“We call ourselves painted street performers,” she ­replied.

Saira introduced me to Chris, who has been a painted lady “manager” for four years. A baby-faced rapper wannabe, Chris works as a combination artist and security guard. He told me to turn up at 2 p.m. the following day with either a red, white or blue thong and heels. He would provide a headpiece and robe.

Chris told me how it works: First the girls (Saira and Chris’ girlfriend, Amanda, 23) go into Sephora to use the free samples to do their makeup. Then, in the middle of Times Square, they throw on a robe and strip underneath it. Chris would paint our bodies ­using brushes, nipples first so they’re not exposed too long. His cousin, David, would mind my bag, take photos and be ready to pounce if anyone tried to touch me inappropriately.

In exchange, Chris would receive 30 percent of my earnings.

That evening I purchased my outfit: white wedge flip-flops (Payless, $24.99) and a blue thong (Victoria’s Secret, $10.50), got a bikini wax and gave myself a red ­mani-pedi.

I woke up at 4:30 a.m., my stomach knotted in anxiety.

I always wanted to end up on Broadway, but not like this.

Showtime. At 3 p.m. Wednesday, at the corner of West 44th Street and Broadway, I take a deep breath and open my robe.

It’s scary, but also kind of liberating. Passers-by gawk and take photos. Someone gives me a $1 bill — my first tip! — while I’m still getting painted.

Chris draws a heart-shaped American flag design on my chest, stripes down my legs and the letters “NY” on my butt in red and white. The 15 minutes feel like getting dressed, just very slowly and very publicly.

I look up and see Miley Cyrus on a video screen, marching in a raunchy, high-cut leotard. I figure if she can be half-naked in Times Square, then I can, too.

“The weird thing is that this doesn’t feel that weird,” I say to my fellow painted lady, Amanda.

She nods. “It’s actually really fun!” she replies.

And it is.

Once painted, I’m off, waving a feather and asking people if they want a picture with me, feeling full of girl power.

Within seconds, some tall, male tourists from Eastern Europe appear. I take one photo posing with my arm around his waist and another with me flashing my booty to the camera. They hand me a $20 bill. For less than one minute of work!

(It must have been beginner’s luck, since $20 is the biggest tip I received all day.)

Chris explains to me that it isn’t legal for topless women to demand a set price, but optional tipping is allowed.

So, when someone asks, “How much for a photo?,” the girls say I should reply, “Just a nice tip is appreciated.” If they don’t ask for a price — and don’t reach for a wallet afterward — then “Thanks, a tip is appreciated” usually works to get people to hand over some dough.

I’m surprised by how many families and kids are thrilled to see me, reacting as if I’m a cheeky Minnie Mouse.

Moms push their giggling teenage sons toward us. Older wives nudge their smiling husbands in our direction. Middle-aged women laugh, say “Oh my God!” and ask for a photo.

One older couple beams at me. I ask if they want to take a photo with me, and the man starts laughing, replying in Spanish, “No, what will the grandchildren think?” And the woman says, “We just wanted to tell you how beautiful you look.”

Three New Yorker couples in their 60s, dressed nicely for a fancy dinner, stop me to ask about the recent controversy.

“What’s it like doing this? Do the police hassle you?” they ask. Two of the women pose with me, everyone hysterically giggling as I turn around to flash my NY butt, and they get the message. They tip me $5.

Of course, lots of solo male travelers want a picture. They are almost always polite, complimentary and good tippers.

I’ve never had more compliments in my entire life. - Amber Jamieson

Lots of women stop to offer encouragement — “Just want to say we support you!” “Love you guys, keep it up!”

I’ve never had more compliments in my entire life. This is not how I expected to feel standing in a thong for seven hours in 85-degree heat in Times Square.

Still, it’s New York, and not everyone is a fan. Zoned-out commuters are clearly annoyed about having to fight the crowds on the way to the subway. Parents sometimes pull their kids quickly past.

“That’s nasty!” one little boy yells. Thirty seconds later he’s asking for a photo.

At 6 p.m., when commuters supplant the tourists, I take a 20-minute restroom break with the girls. We walk to a garage about three blocks away, the only place that will let us use its restroom. Wrapped in our robes, I feel more naked than when I was standing topless.

Turns out, the hardest part of the day isn’t being naked. Like any other gig in New York City, it’s the constant hustle. Plenty of people look at me with disdain when I ask if they want a photo, but are happy to take free pictures from a distance. They seem less offended by my nudity than by the idea of paying up.

“How much for a photo and a squeeze?” one young British backpacker asks me. Another puts his arm around my waist and says, “You’ve got nice tits.” That feels gross.

The worst are the creepy guys who just stand watching us for more than 30 minutes, filming or snapping photos but refusing to actually speak to us or pay a damn tip.

“Would you like a photo with me?” I ask.

They shake their heads and smile sinisterly.

A swarm of NYPD officers appears at 8 p.m., handing out red cards that read “Tipping street performers is optional” in five languages.

Chris points out an undercover cop standing near us — after years of doing this, he knows them all. I later overhear the undercover talking to a tourist.

“Now there’s so many beautiful women!” says the tourist.

“Don’t you think it’s objectifying them?” asks the cop. He’s the only one complaining.

A group of teenage boys clamor around me for a photo, and one of them casually brushes his hand across my breast.

“Don’t f–king touch her,” ­David barks. The kids take off.

David also gets me bottles of water and encourages me to take a break. These guys keep getting criticized as being pimps — with police questioning the girls last week if they were being forced to perform — but honestly they just feel like personal bodyguards.

The girls don’t trust me at first, but after about three hours they warm up, giving me advice and encouragement.

Saira tells me that one or two painted ladies give others a bad name by shaking their booties, pretending to kiss people and being pushy. The costumed characters mob clueless tourists, demanding tips in a way I never witness the other painted ladies — at least six of us — do.

If the mayor wants to worry about activity in Times Square, how about the short bald man walking around wearing only black duct tape over his privates? A girl near me, probably on drugs, spends hours singing Mariah Carey and Beyoncé songs, rolling around on the ground with her legs in the air. Painted ladies are the least crazy thing on the block.

At 10 p.m., the day’s finally over. We go to a nearby bank because it’s well lit and there are cameras, and Chris counts out the $286 I made. I’m such a newbie I forgot to count the cash before I gave it to David, so I can only assume that’s everything I made. Chris rounds it to $300 and gives me $210.

I’m exhausted after seven hours, my head pounding from the headdress and legs aching from the constant walking. Continually trying to engage with strangers is draining.

This is bloody hard work.

So are desnudas the end of civilization? Hardly.

After walking a mile in their headdresses, I realize the fight against the painted ladies is deeply sexist. The Naked Cowboy strolls around Times Square wearing only his ­Y-fronts, placing the hands of female tourists on his butt for a photo (I took one myself on my first trip to the city nine years ago), and he’s regarded as a charming, quintessential New York experience.

But women exercising their ­legal right to be topless and hustle for money in the world’s center of capitalism — surrounded by advertisements of sexy, half-dressed women — are apparently shameful and inappropriate.

Of all the issues to dedicate task forces and extra cops to, ­going after painted ladies seems like naked politics.

It’s official: I’m Team Topless.