The best example of my taking a stand against the oppression of the dreaded dress of doom is a series of 3 pictures taken by a photographer that come to our house to take family photographs. There are 3 photographs in particular that speak to me. The first is a headshot of me, a small lock of hair falling across my forehead - evidence of my first act of follicular rebellion. Despite my vehement denial, my mother was adamant that I had sabotaged my carefully cultivated bob, she claimed that she had found the hair hidden stealthily under my bed.
The second photo is of me looking decidedly cranky and ever so slightly defiant in that same red and white spotted dress. Anger at being forced to wear a dress, defiance because I was wearing a pair of denim cutoff shorts under the offending dress.
The 3rd and final photo is of my older brother and I sitting on our BMX bikes in the back yard, one foot on the pedal and hallmark smiles plastered to our faces. There is a clear look of smug victory in my smiling 5 year old eyes.
Shorts. Shirt. No dress in sight.