I don’t even mind if my head smells like a dead raccoon by day six, I want to look perpetually Adele-chic and not have to sacrifice four hours of my day’s time with a comb and a flat iron to do so.
The Charlotte part of our brains is reserved for the archetypal notions of femininity that have managed to stick around even after Working Girl and everything else that suggested that women might actually be useful for something outside of looking pretty, raising children, and having dinner on the table by 6:30.
Though I still found her strange, I was intrigued that, not only was there a drag queen from Pittsburgh, but that she looked how she looked. It was almost as if she had slapped the city’s conservatism in its face. Being unusual not just for a person, but for a drag queen? That takes guts.