Flipping through my old Blackberry photos from 2011, the one from high school, I found photos of at-home dye jobs that left the blondes—myself included—brassy, the brunettes closer to red. I smiled at how young we looked, frolicking in the freedom from ourselves that we found in plastic bottles of Smirnoff vodka. With alcohol we acted older than we were, escaping our teenage selves and emerging fearless. Later, we hid behind it: I didn’t mean it, I was just drunk. Our eyeshadow unblended, our foundation a tone off our skin colour, our crop tops and skirts hardly covering our bodies. We were gloriously unburdened.