Remember your first year in high school, year 8? You were only 11, turning 12 that February, my Bajingo would banter. This was the ’80s; there was no talk of holding you back a year to catch up to the other students. It was up to you to try and fit in as your peers grew bigger in the bits that mattered.

A group of girls surrounded you on the oval. You know, the girls also known as ‘your friends’? They tugged at the back of that Appaloosa horse t-shirt you were obsessed with, my Bajingo would say. One boy in year 7 commented that this top made your boobs look bigger. And while that moment could orchestrate hashtags in 30 years, in 1982, you claimed it with a subtle fist pump.

When those girls searched your t-shirt and found evidence of foreign polyester, they teased triumphantly, “Ha ha, she’s wearing a bra!” as it was pulled and snapped back against your skin. You still wonder if their breach of body-searching personal space was an attempt to locate a suspected brassiere or to verify their assumption that you are but shouldn’t be wearing a brassiere. Either way, they discovered the strap, which suddenly became their business for commentary. And for song.

“I am woman, hear me roar”, echoed across the oval. It wasn’t a tribute; it was a taunting. And it’s safe to assume it was not Helen Reddy’s intention for use. Your face reddened. Your mouth twitched in an awkward semi-smile, the way it does when you’re confronted by a horrible situation. I was so proud of you at that moment, my Bajingo would say.

Humour was your high-school secret weapon. You weren’t the straight-As academic, and you weren’t the conventionally pretty popular girl – forty-two months of metal-mouth braces and a short-back-and-sides haircut with a square-shaped hair-licked fringe saw to that. But you made people laugh. And could turn a joke on yourself.

That daunting day, as the Mean Girls Choir delivered a malice-laced melody, despite wanting to unleash tears, scurry and hide behind B-Block, and throw your trainer bra in the trash, you joined in. You batted away the bullying, wearing a giggle as a mask, and turned malevolence into a musical.

But it didn’t stop there, did it? my Bajingo would ask rhetorically. For some reason, your female form was fair game to the more endowed commentators.

History was already your least favourite school subject, preferring the more performative and expressive drama and P.E. So, when that note was passed to you during a ninth-grade history class, it became an era you wished time would forget. It’s no wonder you have such little knowledge of the Roman Empire. If only I could’ve taken the fall for you. I did, after all, have skin in this game, my Bajingo would banter.

Your palm cradled the piece of folded paper as you feared the inevitable. The deliverers, two of your female ‘friends’, waited eagerly. You had to open it.

The note read: ‘Where on the pubic mound does pubic hair first start to develop?’. It included a hand-drawn template for you to fill in. Your face filled with fear, my Bajingo would say. Feigning the need for the toilet would be too obvious. And the ‘break glass in an emergency’ firebox was way out of reach. I’ve got this, you thought. Sure, you’d lied about having started your period in an attempt to fit in. But you definitely had some hair down there to draw inspiration from.

You picked up the pencil, poised to start sketching. You would be the Picasso of pubes, the Manet of muff, the Botticelli of bush, my Bajingo would banter. You froze, thinking, darn, now, where in the heck did they first develop? You started mid-mound. Excellent work, a safe bet. You began with light upward strokes.

The ensuing snickers indicated you must be doing something wrong. But what? You quickly erased what was on the page. Merely a first draft. Amid the judgement, you tried again. This time, starting a little lower, closer to the entrance, still with soft upward strokes. The snorts loudened and seemed to spread beyond just the two judicators. You wondered, what now? Perhaps it was the texture failing the test, not the location. But you hadn’t yet grown a complete curly covering.

Your cheeks flushed, and your tummy flipped as the laughter grew louder. It was like the classroom was closing in and squeezing out every last drop of your dignity. Several actions could’ve made up your next move, my Bajingo would say. Humiliation threatened to hamper any attempt at humouring your way out of this social sacrifice. So, you hesitated. And hesitated. And then you told the truth. Scrunching up the paper, you confessed, ‘I’m not sure, I actually don’t remember’. Thankfully, there were only a few more attempts to inflict indignity before it fizzled out faster than a mound of on-fire pubes.

As an inconspicuous observer, I couldn’t fathom why your friends would choose to use precious time for critiquing your body bits when they could’ve been discussing more important things, like who the hottest member of Duran Duran was (John Taylor, obviously), my Bajingo would banter. And I know you felt shame all the times the taunting turned from you onto someone else, and you did nothing to stop it, occasionally encouraging it, relishing the reprieve.

Then, after 15 months of you faking its existence, your period finally came to the party. You found your groove and embraced your individualism. And when you sat straight-backed and confident in your year 12 school photo with a comb-teased Robert Smith-esque fringe and a tight white top showcasing your expansion to 10D, my Bajingo would banter. Well, it perfectly summed up that everything is temporary.