Sometimes I wish I were blonde, with thistle down hair that floats on the breeze and wispy brows, and lashes that are barely there. There is something so fragile about pale skin, pale hair, lilac unicorns made in to girls against their will.

Then I remember all the brave, proud brunettes. I remember Wendy and Dorothy and Sara and dearest Lucy and I tie my braids like a badge of honour. For we are the fierce, clever, plucky little maidens who save lost boys and open wardrobe doors and remember, in our dreams, how to fly.