When I was little my older sister used to torture me. I'm not talking whips and chains or the usual torture devices. The girl made my life hell in other creative ways.
She smashed me between couch cushions, locked me in the closet, ran credit cards up my butt crack, and on one occasion convinced me to run away from home wearing only a diaper and pair of baby Keds.
I dreamed of the day she would accept me and I would be considered cool. I mean, she was my big sister. There was a lot riding on her acceptance.
One of her favorite activities to use me for were makeovers. I actually didn't mind them back then. It was like "Wow! She actually wants to hang out with me!" I was dressed up in all sorts of ridiculous, yet creative outfits. One time i was a bum, the next time I was a call girl complete with bleach blonde hair.
The call girl instance where my hair was dyed blonde was the one that my mother stepped in on. She was so mad. Not mad about me being dressed as a hooker...but having my hair dyed a random color at a young age.
Ever since that first coloring of my hair I have kept dying it ever since. Maybe it's an addiction to chemicals...or maybe it's just a way of reliving funny memories.
