Why My Father Bought Me My First Bra

Source: blog.freepeople.com

This is a piece I wrote for Huffington Post blogs a few months back. Apologies for not updating in ages, I promise I will return in due time!

I'm 15, standing in the awkwardly quiet 'Angel' section at Marks and Sparks, and I want to die. My father is beside me, clearing his throat every couple of seconds and prodding me in the shoulder. "Just pick one and be done with it." Shrugging him away I circle the rack, skimming through the varieties, hmm'ing and ahh'ing at the appropriate moments as I turn the tags over in my fingers; underwired, wing, padded, t-shirt, santoni, sports. Christ. Considering my options (or rather, trying to figure out what the hell they actually are), I decide on an embellished pink thing with a cheap plastic heart dangling from the centre. I peer at the label; 32AA. This is my bra size - I actually have a bra size. Beaming, I look up at my dad, who has now turned the colour of beetroot soup, and swiftly drag him to the tills where he stuffs the money in the assistant's hand and glides out, leaving me shoving the purchase in my backpack and smiling apologetically. Who the heck am I kidding; neither of us have the faintest clue what we're doing.

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