I was a late developer. Slow to walk, dragging one leg after the other in a sporadic crawl, I found other ways to move around. My voice took a while too; in class I was quiet, introspective, studious. So it remained, year after torturous school year: the frog dancing in my throat as I raised my tremulous hand to speak, the ragged crimson flush which crept across my cheeks, my chin, my chest the moment anyone looked in my direction.

At fifteen, I experienced an awakening. I’m not sure which came first, the confidence or the sideways glances, but it was if I had woken up and burst from the chrysalis which hampered me all these years. I perfected my lolloping swagger, honed my sneer to perfection, slashed and dyed my mousey brown locks into a honey tinted bob and dared anyone to mention it with a withering stare. I…