A Beard Stroke Moment

Fall is officially upon us. Footballs are being tossed; the autumnal equinox has come and gone. The air has a crisp quality to it now, and when the wind blows through the tree branches it is audibly crunchy. On my morning walks to work I have watched singular brown leaves break free, haphazardly making their way to the ground, a dignified death. I’ve smiled seeing little tikes with oversized backpacks scurry to catch the bus, often tripping over their own feet. My stomach is churning in anticipation of bowls of Chili, crocks of French onion soup and slices of mom’s stromboli. I already want to stay indoors and snuggle on the couch under a fuzzy blanket listening to good ole Frankie serenade the night away. Why Sinatra you ask? I don’t know there is something nostalgic to Fall and timeless to Frank Sinatra-they seem to fit together.

This of course also means that Halloween is around the corner. The holiday of make-believe, where for a night, you can transform into whatever creature/being/concept your imagination desires. The question- What are you going to be for Halloween? – has me sitting here in my cubicle stroking away at an imaginary beard, pondering my next ensemble. Thus far, I have come up with a big fat blank. This is normal, these things take time. Eventually, an idea, a costume or some brilliant creation will surface. Until then I reflect on my past outfits.

In high school, my mom remembered two hours before the parade that she was supposed to walk with my little brother’s Boy Scout troop in a Halloween parade. It was pajama themed. Hurriedly, we found matching yellow, silk pajamas and two random Bob Marley caps with long dreads attached. We danced down main street singing, Jamming, passing out candy to those kids that would jam along.

In college, I walked the streets with a purple Mohawk, red eyeliner and a placard dangling from my neck that read: Surfer on Acid, ½ Jager, ½ Malibu, ½ pineapple juice. Accompanying me, was a Red Headed Slut, a Bahama Mama and a White Russian; we were a sh*it show on wheels as everybody wanted to buy us our respected shots. I’m afraid the night ended early when I was denied entrance into a bar, not because of my fake ID but because the bouncer was scared I really was on acid. (A foreshadowing of my future success as a makeup artist)

In Park City, I painted half my face blue, bought plaid and leather material fashioning the girl version of William Wallace from Braveheart. Throughout the night there were random outbursts of me yelling, “Freeedommm” with my fist raised defiantly in the air. Two years ago, I was a glow-in-the-dark dream catcher. (See sketch above) It was the first time I had actually sketched out my outfit before making it. Coincidently, it was also the first year I worked in a cubicle. The night I wore that outfit I felt dreamy; I didn’t talk as much as I twirled around watching my feathers lift in the air. This upcoming year, Mamacita is carrying the torch of tradition, throwing our annual family costume party on the last Friday of the month. It is the first time in 20+ years that the party is not at my parent’s house. I trust there will still be apple bobbing.

Still Stroking,

A Warrior Princess

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