Most dorkish redheads don't.

I recall hiding out a lot, wishing for invisibility; standing on the edges of groups and hoping no-one realised I wasn't really part of them.

I was an awkward fringe-dweller, forever looking for a safe place to land.

Pimples enjoyed my company, finding plenty of comfy spots between the freckles and leading me to doubt the existence of a merciful god.

My unruly hair only looked less frightening when pulled back behind unfortunately enormous ears.

In grade eight I had a perm that by no coincidence became the last perm ever to be administered in Australia.

Tiny rollers were burned in salons across the country after my perm.

This was also the year in which I "became a woman" while wearing my white pleated skirt in maths class.

Good times.

I assumed that most people were hoeing an easier row than me, but I'm now certain that can't be right.

High school is an interminably long game of emotional chess in which no piece - not even kings and queens and devilishly handsome knights - are completely safe from attack.

It's ruled by hormones we can't yet handle, feelings we can't yet manage and pressures we don't know how to prioritise.

As far as institutional cruelty goes, high school is less preparation for adulthood than a perfectly understandable reason to flee towards it well before we're ready.

And so I wasn't initially keen to go along to my high school reunion last weekend.

What could possibly be gained by resetting the timer on my self-esteem? Sure, my skin has cleaned up in 20 years, hair straighteners have been invented, and I've a lovely family to boast of, but is the mortified teen in the white pleated skirt just an RSVP away from reappearing?

And what of my unrequited love, Phil, who never looked my way because of his unrequited love for Karen? Could I finally gain his attention with the aid of a fake tan, nanna pants and some hot dance moves? Make him wish he'd snaffled me back when he could have?