The moment I walk into the Girls Room, I feel out of place.
The studio’s wide, mirrored space is punctuated by gleaming silver poles that extend from floor to ceiling, and the purple walls are festooned with pink feather boas and bright, sequined leotards.
It’s all so girly, and I’ve always resisted being girly. When my mother tried to dress me in frilly dresses, I threw a tantrum. If ever I happened to be reading—the horror!—something along the lines of Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret., I’d disguise the cover.
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