I clean up quite well.

I just saw the gnarliest squirrel running along a telephone wire outside my hotel room window. He looked like a cross between a ferret and a pencil. Most of his hair was gone except for random tufts sticking out along his thin belly but he seemed quite jaunty and free. It’s destiny that I see this squirrel today because he reminds me a lot of me.

It’s surprising how little I care for my looks.

Or maybe a better way of putting it- how awesome I think fashion drama is.

I remember getting called into the office in grade three. The principal was sitting behind his desk and he asked me with a frown on his face “do you know what clashing means?”

This was obviously before the time when principals were dealing with elementary school shootings. His only battle for the day was a color war. I was wearing a red shirt with an orange skirt and it was his duty to take me down.

So I am standing here now, watching this punk rock squirrel and I can totally identify.

No one ever told me that makeup is not necessarily supposed to be noticeable.

No one has explained to me how to properly highlight.

In my twenties I would paint my face like Hawaii before leaving the house. I used three different shades of eye shadow- pink, turquoise and white.

My roommate would follow me scrubbing the blush off my cheeks with her shirtsleeves. “It’s going to be dark in there” I’d say “the makeup has to be noticeable.” “You look like a cabbage patch whore” she’d retort as she spit washed my cheeks on my way out the door.

For years my very best friend would never let me touch her face. She told me that she had a “people touching her face” phobia. I found out 10 years later that in fact, it was just me she didn’t want touching her face because she knew my hands were always dirty and my chipped nails grew too long and I would collect weird shit under them and she was simply afraid my greasy paws were going to give her zits.

It hasn’t changed over the years either. I still prefer to bathe once a week. I only do it more for the sake of my sex life. If I could live in sweat pants I would. My toenails get too long and start pushing through my shoes because it’s such a fucking hassle to cut them. Only recently, when I have to go into my “real” job (which is only freelance so happens rarely) I ask my man “did a clown dress me today?” and he helps with the adjustments before I leave the house.

I live just like the natty dread squirrel does. Skipping along that fine line above all the grey cement looking like right nasty business.

And I like it that way. I feel good about myself. Because, when I do it right- once a year when I have an award to present or a party to attend let me tell you the room stops and people cry “Damn girl you clean up good!”

I have the element of surprise you see. A hairbrush and a bra and I am a fucking showstopper.

And you get to know that if you ever ride shotgun with me on a night on the town the car might smell like dog shit but we are going to look like pop tarts high on sunshine.

Skanky Squirrels unite!