Fads are fads and facts are facts, and rarely the twain shall meet.

This is especially true when it comes to cosmetics and cats.

It has come to my attention that “matte” is the new fad when it comes to makeup.

Matte lipstick.
Matte blush.
Matte mattifying powder.
Matte matte madness.

That’s matte as in flat, frankly — no shine, no sizzle, no kidding. Apparently “subdued” is the new “sparkly.”

But never, no never, will we see this trend transfer to cats.

There are simply no matte cats.

Feast your shimmer-starved eyes on Frank. The wee little wonder with the world-sized eyes just might be the feline equivalent of frosted flamingo-pink lipstick. Make that circus-peanut-orange lipstick.

Though he may look too timid for the Ferris Wheel, Frank comes from the kingdom of carnivals, the hotbed of hotdogs, the colorful corner of the universe that is Coney Island.

Alas, Frank’s Coney Island days were more haunted house than cotton candy. For reasons we’ll never know and prefer not to contemplate, the poor feline teen ended up with a prolapsed rectum. If that sounds horrifying and embarrassing, it’s both. It’s also a slow, horrific way to lose your life…and it’s exactly how Frank’s flicker was set to fizzle on the boardwalk.

But Frank was no matte cat.

The light fell just right on our brave little wanderer, and a full rainbow of sparkles caught the eyes of good Samaritans. Through a chain of charmed events, Frank became a Tabby’s Place cat. Today, he’s healed, whole and getting his glimmer on in the company of fast friends Paco and Bacon.

Yes, that Bacon. We had no reason to believe Bacon had a taste for cats…but then, along came Frank, and suddenly the species seemed worthwhile. Along the way, Bacon learned that a Paco makes a mighty fine pillow.

Things are neither matte nor flat in the Special Needs suite.

It’s the same shiny case down the hall in Suite B, thanks to one Gizmo.

At ten years of age, Gizmo lost his human to the vagaries of a move. There’s no denying that he’s “older.” He’s not the flavor of the week, not the Best New Artist, not the dernier cri. But flat? Matte? Try mag-spangling-nificent.

If Gizmo were a fabric, he’d be fringed velveteen. If he were an edible, he’d be an entire bag of circus peanuts that melted and re-solidified into one glorious megapeanut. If he were an artist, he’d be the artist formerly known as the Artist Formerly Known as Prince. And if he were a meteorological phenomenon, you bet your velveteen pants he’d be purple rain.

I regret that there are very few good non-craptacular photos of Gizmo, but I can’t regret the reason. Once you — by which I mean, any member of our species — comes within 20 feet of Gizmo, Gizmo begins whirling.

Literally.

Gizmo wants so desperately to love you that he’ll start swishing his head — o grand cantaloupe love-orb! — side to side, at furious speed. Whether through the bars of a Quarantine cage or across the continental divide, he must love you in every way he can, simultaneously. Gizmo loves and rubs and mooshes so fervently, he makes a whooshy whirring sound with his face and his fur and his purr.

His only regret is that he can’t rub both sides of his face against you at the same time (and he tries really, really hard). One of these days, he’ll beat those laws of physics, dangit.

Once he’s known you for the better part of one minute, you get the impression that Gizmo would quite literally give his life for you. Nothing, he’s convinced, compares to you. He is in mad, shimmering love.

And, unless you’re terminally matte, so are you.

So, with all apologies to the tastemakers of the cosmetic world, I’m afraid we’re going to sit this particular trend out at Tabby’s Place. Shine on, my frosted flamboyant friends.

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