Following my weird

‘The rules are there are no ‘nos,’” my faerie godmother said as we pulled into the parking lot of Value Village. “You have to try on everything I give you.”

It was a moot point. Once I had agreed to go to the Radical Faerie gathering with him, I knew there was no protesting whatsoever. That was the whole point of going.

When I imagine myself in drag, I’m wearing Pucci prints, pillbox hats and three-quarter sleeves. My godmother saw it differently.

“I look like Angela Bassett,” I said. The dress was a stretchy leopard print with a high collar. I could smell the sweat of the last person who tried it on.

“It’s sporty. We’ll take it.”

Later I held up the dresses for my neighbour to see.

“Just how I imagined you as a woman,” she said.

Buying women’s clothing is one thing; carrying it across the border, another. “These are not the droids you’re looking for,” I secretly chanted as the customs agent peered into the back of our car.

“Move along.”

I asked my godmother what would have happened if the agent had seen the drag.

“We would have got through faster.”

I tried coming up with a drag name: Lima Beans. Polly Technique. Percy Scription.

Nothing took.

“Those aren’t drag names,” said my godmother. “That’s what you name a sock puppet. Don’t worry. It’ll come.”

“Follow Your Own Weird,” urged a placard in a tree. I was trying.

Amidst the tree trunks, men in dresses went about their business, blending in with the flora and fauna. It was as though we were the only survivors of a nuclear holocaust and all that was left to wear were women’s clothes.

It amazes me how a man can become a dress. I had four different outfits, but I never disappeared into them the way the others did. I never became a character.

At dinner, the neckline on the leopard print was making it hard to swallow. I was about to excuse myself when my godmother pulled me back.

“You will do no such thing,” he said, staring me down between the bangs of his platinum-blonde wig. “Do you think women are ‘comfortable’ in women’s clothes? No! But do they look fabulous? Yes!”

Somewhere within was the meaning of life.

To prove my godmother’s point, a hairy-chested guy with six-pack abs worked a Hula-Hoop in thigh-high leather boots, cocktail dress and a spiky wig. He made it look effortless.

I had followed my own weird and it had led me here. And it was beautiful.