I love nothing more than to make a fool of myself (for proof, just read this post on potty training).
So when Liz from A Belle, A Bean and a Chicago Dog offered a chance to mock my 17-year-old self, I gleefully dug up my scrap book.
But I found that, except for the haircut, there wasn’t much to ridicule. (The haircut was short lived, no one in Central Minnesota had the skills to give me the Meg Ryan pixie I was going for.)
I didn’t have Chewbacca eyebrows, as I had gay friends who ruthlessly plucked them along with pushing back my cuticles.
I never wore braces.
I don’t recall my skin being this glowy and clear, so I’m going to thank the airbrush.
I’m not leaned against a fake tree, clutching a band instrument (I gave up french horn in the sixth grade).
So, I’m left in the strange position of posting something I’m not mortified to share.
But dammit if my hair wasn’t more red then. Humph.