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Don't wear orange pants

Muckleshit. I know it’s not a word but it was part of the vocabulary in my home growing up. This special descriptor was used by my family when talking about my hair color. ‘Muckleshit brown’ was employed very fondly, always with a smile, and it stuck.

To make matters worse, my muckleshit brown hair sat above my vampire teeth, on top of a tiny stick body that resembled a nine year old boy. It was not a great look.

CAN YOU BELIEVE IT??! What kind of adult allows this picture to go in the Grade 6 yearbook? To top it off I was the only one with my eyes closed.

Then came a terrible day.

I remember it clearly — walking out the door of my childhood home heading to my primary school across the street with a heart so heavy I can still feel my distress fifty years later. I was heading into the classroom lions den with every shred of dignity and confidence left back in my bedroom,…