My year was 1925.

I was eigh years old, and had moved to San Francisco with my friend, Tilly, who later changed her name to Hope.

I loved California, because you could go outdoors in December with a loose dress and pumps.

You couldn’t do that in Virginia.

I was your regular flapper .

I had that beads, the short black hair, the gloves that go all the way up to your elbows, everything!

Except Tilly/Hope and I couldn’t afford boas, so we spent our mornings in our too cold to live apartment ripping up pillows, dying feathers, and piecing them together.

We also pinked each other’s hair.

I remember one time when I ally cut Tilly/Hope’s hair so short, I thought she’d never speak to me again.

We never ate, unless we found men at our favorite jazz clubs to take us to dinner, which was about twice a week, and half of them were older, and married with kids.

We were nocturnal; slept during the day, and stayed up all night.

But that was us!

That was the life of a flapper .