An Early Hair-Story: from Barbershop to Training Bra
My boobs got attention, but my hair held all the power.
If I do say so myself, my hair’s worth writing about. Too vain? Maybe, but if there’s one thing that sets me apart from the other gals, it’s my hair. Okay, my boobs run a close second, but the ladies know we don’t have near the history with our boobs that we do with our hair.
Boobs just pop out and into your life. From the start, you’re trying to hide them or promote them.
First in class
Like many women, my relationship with my boobs has seesawed between hate and tolerance my entire life. At first, I hated them.
At the ripe old age of eleven, Mom noticed my blossoms before I did and immediately harnessed them by forcing me into a training bra.
It was uncomfortable and to my utter humiliation, immediately snapped by another girl on the first day I wore it to school.
My boobs got me lots more unwanted attention and jealous side-ways glances from my flat-chested mother.
“Where did you get those?” she asked after I popped out from under our tent flap wearing my new yellow halter-top bathing costume, ready for a day in the ski boat. I was twelve.
