Every little girl, at one point or another, has dreamt of being a prima ballerina. She would go to bed at night in her little tutu, unwilling and a bit stubborn when her mother told her that it would get wrinkled. Dreams of pirouettes and perfect buns, pretty pointe shoes and the Nutcracker would appear each night. A waltz would be played ever so gently by the pianist in the orchestra pit as she would be whisked away, on her toes, of course, by a handsome dancer. And she would wake up in that tiny tutu, a bit frumpled, but still much loved. Years later she may have forgotten the dreams, as most girls do, and replace it with a black pencil skirt or a pair of J Brand skinnies. Yet the photographs from recitals and open houses at the studio would always be with her. So it would be safe to assume and to conclude that ballet itself could be considered the epitome of all things feminine. Almost every little girl idolized the elegance a ballerina possessed, and the endless layers of pink tulle and satin ribbons she could wear. Because preparing for her first recital was when a…