Under suspicion in a varsity women's action group for the wearing of lipstick and floral dresses, by the time womanhood was being sanctified in the form of 1950s baking shows and false eyelashes I was back to dungarees and a No1 haircut (working in kitchens and hating hairnets) which got me permanently banned from a pub in Auckland for being a skin-head.
Which obviously I wasn't.
To all outward appearances I remained a woman through the whole gamut of fashion fails that have been my life.
What then would I wear if I ever decided to go and work for Mr Trump on his PR team?
How would I know if I were indeed dressed like a woman? Would I still be a woman if I broke the code?
Although the likelihood of me ever getting asked to join Donald's PR team is low to non-existent and given one of my favourite A.A. Gill (RIP) quotes is "PR consultants are the head-lice of the civilised world", I'm perversely attracted to the idea.
Exciting to make the indigestible, delicious.
Every waking and even sleeping hour a battle for a word warrior to transform the awkward, foul and appalling into palatable works of consumable art, without the uncreative and boring constraints of needing to stick to facts.
What would I wear for such a marvellous job?
A ring-master's braided velvet?
A conductor's baton? A master puppeteer's black ensemble?
A Machiavellian mask? Are any of these outfits womanly enough for the ageing Donald?
I turn to Kellyanne Conway's inspirational outfits, what she has termed Trump revolutionary wear.
An inauguration day $5000 jacket with kitten buttons in the colours of stars and stripes.
Nice. And then I remember. I should be wearing Ivanka's gear.
After consumers started boycotting it, Kellyanne told Fox viewers to "go buy Ivanka's stuff" in a moment where reality TV, product placement and political endorsements had an orgy on live television and produced one largely uncommented-on bastard of a conflict of interest.
But, hey, there has to be some perks to being hell's haute-couture handmaiden.
