A couple of years ago when my Mom came to visit Cabo she brought with her some extra pics of my childhood. She thought I’d want them.
I did. But after looking at the pics I solidly decided that she gave me all of the most horrendous, non-flattering and awkward photos I’ve ever taken because she didn’t want them.
I don’t blame her.
They’re not good.
First – let me explain that I started taking dance when I was 2 and stopped around 16.
Secondly – let me explain that my Mom did horrible things to my hair. I was easily bribed and would do just about anything for a jean jacket. (You’ll see.)
Thirdly – I wasn’t a cute kid.
So first, this one.
Cute. Sweet baby Kylee. It was a little Hawaiian dance number. Cute enough.
I don’t hate this. I peaked when I was 3.
Then there’s this one.
This is clearly the beginning of the end. But, at least I looked like a girl.
Then… there was this.
That’s me in the middle with the big glare on me.
What am I doing? It doesn’t look appropriate for a tween.
But this, friends? Oh… Oh this…
This is why I will never cut my girls’ hair. The wounds are raw. Still.
Here I am in the turban. Hiding the hair debacle.
And, then there I am SANS the turban.
I’m a boy.
I’m a boy with a bowl cut wearing a unitard.
I remember feeling as if I had been sucker-punched when I rolled into dance the week they showed us the costume that was chosen for our class. I was hoping for a flouncy skirt, something girly and cute. NOPE.
We got cast-off’s from Scott Hamilton’s ice skating shows, no?
It gets better.
Now, I’m a boy with a MULLET.
This haircut happened because my Mom said she’d buy me a jean jacket if I cut my hair in a “spike.” I did it. And she bought the jacket. But it was a boy’s jacket. Which didn’t make the situation any better.
(Craig says I looked like Chuck Norris here. Like I was all, “Hang on, let me quickly rock out this jazz number then I will martial law your _____.”)
Cool. I was just SO COOL.