I had lunch the other day with Emily, my most stylish friend. Now, before you start feeling offended that you’re not my most stylish friend, you should know that Emily looks like this:




And you should keep in mind that she’s looked like this almost every time I’ve seen her in the last eight years. She looked like this even when we were camp counselors who showered once a week, and only in the lake.

When I’m with Emily, I sometimes feel like Country Mouse to her City Mouse. This feeling is based in the fact that I look like this, and have looked like this almost every day for the past eight years:



Despite her superior appearance, however, Emily is warm and accepting. When she did my wedding-day make-up, she plucked my unibrow without complaint and explained patiently about the mechanics of the eyelash curler. Similarly, when I visited her at Aveda Institute for a $12 haircut while she was in school, she didn’t flinch when I told her I used whatever shampoo was in the shower and didn’t own a round brush.

“Okay,” said Em, nodding without judgment. “Then, do you own any brushes, Kace?”

Now, that’s my kind of friend.