I had an art teacher when I was in the fourth grade. She was the first “artsy” person I think I had ever come into contact with—weird artsy, though. Like, I’m so cool, I’m an ahr-teeeest weird artsy. She smelled strongly. I don’t remember now what it was, but I always held my breath when she came over to my side of the room. She dressed loudly. Always bright colors, weird patterns, strong, bold suits. And heels. Lord, that lady wore heels—but she was a little on the big side, so the heels were always strong, clunky, brightly colored columns of wood and pleather.
But her face. Her makeup. We’re talking real face spackle. Like, thick, and it would have cracks in it. I don’t think I ever learned what she looked like.
Nobody else—no matter how bad they think their make up is, or will be—will truly have face spackle like this lady (now that I think about it—what if she was a he?!?) did.