For the first time since wearing my baby pink and ruffly party dress at my fifth birthday, I felt my left foot being placed in front of my right with a noticeable “oomph”. My hips swayed while I strutted my stuff with a Cheshire cat-like grin slapped across my face and hair-sprayed there. At first I was concerned for the well-being of the innocent on-lookers I passed because of the whip lash I was causing until I realized that it wasn’t my fault they couldn’t handle my swagger. The clack of my heels acknowledged my approach and the final flick of my perfectly coiffed hair signaled everyone to resume their normal activities. I could feel envious eyes glued to my back and I knew that I had the hallways at my command. And even though my imagination had run away with me again, the feeling of power and poise that it gave me was as real to me as a sugar high. So what if my left leg is a few measly inches shorter than my right? It gives me an extra spring in my step. So what if the rubber bands on my braces keep my mouth wide open and lips curled back? It keeps me smiling all day long, which is more than can be said of the unhappy Barbie girls stalking the hallways for football players for self-assurance. And so what if the only reason my hair could even be considered a “hair style” is because my little sister decided to play “barber shop” while I was asleep? It makes me unique. The only one who can control the way the world sees me, is me. And how do I see myself? That’s easy: I just look in the mirror, and work it.