I sat at the piano in the very first ballet class for the youngest beginners, no older than 4 and 5. I watched quietly as the teacher tried to settle the girls who explored the large room with excitement and wonder. They wore their brand new pink leotards and white tights, just taken out of the package today. Their mothers had brushed their hair into a ponytail, then twisted the loose ends into a pink, sparkly hair wrap. Bobby pins held the wispy hairs tight to their heads. The girls wandered inside, taking notice of their elegant appearance in the wall-sized mirrors, as if today was the ultimate of all “dress-up” days. They grasped the wooden bar, and mimicked the movements they’d seen ballerinas do on TV. The girls jumped up and down like popcorn when they finally took notice of the teacher, tall, sophisticated, and graceful. She wore a chiffon black skirt around her waist that gently swayed with each movement, and satin pointed shoes with pink ribbons that laced up around her ankl