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I have spent two separate chapters of my life locked inside the Big Brother house. Once in my twenties when I thought balayage meant a Cadbury Top Deck dye job and nose rings were cool, and again in my thirties when I should have known better but definitely did not. For 93 days. I survived the fluorescent lights, the no-phone reality, the paranoia, the group showers and the nation judging me while eating their dinner.
It has been over a decade since my first (and arguably…
