We used to do annual ice shows (my sister and I were skaters) that involved us wearing what I realize now were mini showgirl costumes -- high cut leotards with extra long skirts and spray-glitter yarmulkes with feathers sticking out of the top.
Then, because this didn't technically qualify as abuse yet, they would smear the exact same shade of pancake make-up on all of our faces (maybe 60 of us, all the same orange), outline each of our eyeballs in heavy black eye liner, and put fuschia lipstick on us.
In between shows we would go out to lunch at an Italian place, all dressed up like teensy magician's assistants, wearing billowy show t-shirts over our nude tights, so it appeared to anyone who didn't know better that we were pants-less and had a very specific, widespread skin disease. (Widespread as in it affected all of us, not widespread as in affecting a large area, because only our legs and faces appeared afflicted.)
You might think that once you factored in the lights my friend Heather's dad operated, and the distance from way up in the bleachers that we appeared normal, but that would be discounting the on-ice seating, which meant strangers were approximately 3 feet away from our pivoting kickline.
We did this one weekend in May every year of our lives for 12 years.
The hats were the best part.
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