Meta Memoir Fash

There was this one time when I was eight or nine years old that I applied to be a go-go dancer. Maybe it was the boots. The go-go dancers on TV got to wear shiny patent leather knee-high boots, their long hair swaying as they moved. I called clubs that advertised in the newspaper classifieds. Girls! Girls! Girls! One man asked me if I had experience.

My mother put a stop to my plans when strangers called the house asking for me. At the time it seemed so unfair. I could see myself in one of those cages.