The summer I turned ten, I spent most nights in the dressing room for “champagne babes” at my dad’s nightclub. My mother worked long hours and my parents did not want me to be home alone, so, this was (obviously) the best option. The first night, I tried to take everything in excitedly: the slinky champagne-colored dress perched on a chair, the jumble of heels stashed haphazardly under the table. The second night, I heard my dad argue with his business partner about hiring an Asian Michael Ja...