ABSTRACT
I never grew breasts. Tall and skinny, my teenage years were spent jealously watching my friends’ breasts grow into things of beauty. At 13 I was told not to worry. To placate me, my mother bought me a bra, tiny and padded. The ambitiously named “training bra” was testament to the inevitability of breasts and for a while I believed in its magic. I stuffed the empty cups with tissues and wore it relentlessly until, at around 16, I gave up hope and went bra-less in defiance.
