It’s a tough gig being the only girl in a male dominated familia, with more testosterone pumping through my veins than estrogen, and an upper cut to rival Francis Ngannou’s as proof. My long suffering mother, having just produced three humans of the male variety, longed for a girl to #collab with in the feminine things in life.
Overwhelmed by the untouched avenues of pink, lacy and frilly, Ma went a lil’ too hard. For the first decade of my cushy, cushy life Mum dressed me in nothing but polka dots and pissy pinks – a tough scar to heal.
Against the odds and my natural instincts, I have grown to love the polka dot again. It has taken some time and a great deal of cognitive modification to welcome the dot back into the fold, but alas, here it is.