My mom told me once on the phone that she was looking at a picture of a little girl in a poodle skirt with the devil in her eyes. That little girl was me. I know exactly which picture she's talking about. I'm sitting on a stool holding an old record with a cardboard cutout of a jukebox behind me. I guess I'm about 8 or 9 years old. It was our annual photoshoot before our end of the year dance recital. I'm wearing my costume for that year's tap number.
When Mom said that, I smiled a little because I could see that little girl in my mind: my scalp tingled from the remembrance of a pony tail pulled so tight and high I swore my face would stay permanently stretched back into my hairline. Every swift swipe of the brush pulled my hair even further away from my forehead. But it shone as much as the red silk ribbon holding it in place.
I miss that girl because I remember her as fearless. Spoiled rotten and stubborn, but never afraid to do things her own way. Actually, usually unaware there were other options. I've since learned to curb some of that willfullness, but there's a part of me that desperately needs to find the little girl in the poodle skirt again. I need her fearlessness, her belief that anything was possible, because why wouldn't it be? At an age when you have no responsibility to anyone, not even yourself, there are no barriers, no mental obstacle courses to overcome, no gymnastics of faith to perform to achieve a life of your own choosing. Things are wonderfully innocent and effortless and the future drips with potential.
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