Faith Wanderi arrives looking nothing like Faith Wanderi. She is in a cowboy hat and cowboy boots, and panache on her tongue and gusto in her gait, with the malandro charm of a Spanish matador, she has brought a gun, a knife, and a bazooka to a gunfight.
She looks like she could have walked straight out of T.D. Jake’s book: ‘Woman, Thou Art Loosed’. She is also eight minutes late—car trouble—but frankly if she told me her horses needed watering, I wouldn’t have minded.
