Friday was always Unicorn day. When I was three, I was pushed in a stroller from kids camp to the old arts and crafts building, and some counselor sat me on her lap as we sang and waited patiently for the wizard to arrive. To be clear, I have no memory of this, but thats what all the pictures from my first year at camp seem to describe. Every year, we sang. From Princess Pat to the Baby Shark song, by the time I was 6 we knew every single word. Paper plates were decorated and rolled into horns, and we wore them on our heads all morning long in anticipation. The unicorn was magical until I was about 7, when I could see that it was probably just a horse and that the wizard looked suspiciously like the same girl who had held the reigns during my riding lesson that morning, just with a fancy cape and hat. When I turned 11, my friends and I were in the right place at the right time, and we got to help transform a horse into a unicorn, equipped with finger paint and glitter. We spent hours in the barn, oblivious to the scent of manure or how badly we were staining our hands, as we worked hard to make a beautiful unicorn for the little kids. Each year, how I felt about the unicorn changed: from pure awe, to pride in helping out, to being just a little bit too cool for it, to accepting that we weren’t actually cool and letting the preteen girls paint our faces, and finally to screaming at the top of my lungs with my best friends as a counselor. I can’t wait until I can roll my own children up in a stroller, and watch their faces as the unicorn rides by. Even if it is just a horse with some paint and a counselor with a wig and cape, the Unicorn will always be magical, and Friday will always be Unicorn day.