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guilty.


Just thinking back to yearbook photo days, the super early days. The buck teeth. The lopsided “wtf. is that.” hairdos. The disco-fever highwaters, and please run me over  themed outfits.

I’m adopted and my mom’s a baby boomer. She’s a certified beautician, somehow. I’m pretty sure her certification happened before JFK in the womb. She rambo-ed the sh* out of my face with hairspray,, put a pony tail on the very top of my head_ And it looked like a bowl cut on the bottom… I wish I could post it. She was an awful woman. She was older, and I could’ve outrun her and protested these awful days, but she was super sensitive, no compromises. Would just, burst into tears at the thought of being called a bad hairdresser. So there was guilt behind ever telling this woman no. There was no running. I was enslaved by ugly sweaters and outfits every year and then going to school and being laughed at. The awfulness, lol

I didn’t get to choose what I wore either. Couldn’t run. Lol

She used to be okay at dressing me and my sister up. I hated dresses, but we looked cute.

Idk, my parents were on the verge of a big divorce. Closer and closer every year, it felt like. The chaos in my mom’s life just kept unraveling and I felt like a by-product of her disasters. My hair couldn’t be trusted near a cigarette, thank God she didn’t smoke. I was a walking disaster, a dazzling chaotic masterpiece. I don’t miss those days!

 

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