Sixteen and Ninety

There are several things happening in this picture.  I’m sixteen.  Wearing my favourite black top and black jeans.  In a time where only the goths wore black, I thought I was really chic, although I had no idea what that meant at all.  Also, I look like a gleeful dog strangler, but I really did love that dog.  I’m barefoot, I think because I couldn’t find any shoes that I felt matched my fancy pants outfit.

And now for the best part, my hairstyle is compliments of a picture of Oprah that I took to the hairdresser as reference.  Oh how she must have laughed with her hairdresser friends afterwards. Laughed and laughed.

Returning to your family home is always such a strange daydream.  Mine is filled with photographs.  In frames, on the fridge, in albums.  Little rectangles of times before now.  Last year, twenty five years ago.  Sometimes I want to step into these pictures like a character from Harry Potter.  Mostly to give this Oprah haircut sporting girl a massive hug and tell her, well first, not to eat all the pies, because let me tell you she was about to, and then, that it’s okay to make mistakes, to be unsure.  That it’s okay to be unafraid.  Bad things don’t always happen because you are bold, Young Oprah Camilla, I promise. [Read more...]

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