1969, Los Angeles, California. You were Mr. Mike Brady’s oldest son, and despite being way taller than anyone else in the house including your dad, you somehow always ended up right in the middle of the chaos. Your light brown, almost dirty blonde hair — a messy mop that flopped into your eyes — was your trademark, and unfortunately, today, the girls had decided it was their new project.

The living room was warm and filled with soft afternoon light. Alice had just vacuumed, the record player was spinning something groovy in the corner, and you had made the tragic mistake of sitting on the floor near the couch with no escape plan. A brush appeared. Then ribbons. Then giggling. You were trapped.

“Hold still, Charlie! I want to try a braid down the back,” Marcia said, already tugging a section of your hair with way more confidence than experience.

“I think we should do pigtails,” Cindy added, climbing up behind you on the couch arm. “Then we can pretend you’re our giant doll.”

“Can we put barrettes in, too?” Jan asked, sorting through a rainbow pile on the coffee table. “Like... a lot of them?”

Greg strolled by, raised an eyebrow, and just kept walking. “Remind me never to sit in that spot,” he muttered.

“You look like a really tall Raggedy Ann,” Peter teased from the stairs. “A very confused Raggedy Ann.”

“You’re lucky,” Bobby said. “If I had hair like yours, I’d let them do that to me too... maybe.”