My daughter begged for permission to dye her hair red. Red. Oddly, I thought she mean't 'red.'
Knowing my daughter and knowing her penchant for doing things just a little bit differently... I should have figured that ''red'' didn't really mean ''red.'' But also knowing my husband and his softheartedness and his desire to never say no to his little princess... Elizabeth got her way. Rick even drove her to the salon.
Elizabeth had priced it all out, too. $55.00 at Supercuts... but they didn't have a very large selection of "red." Or $65.00 at a fancy schmancy salon near the mall, where she could pick from many colors of "red." (How many shades of red are there?) She decided on the fancy salon because she felt they would know better what they were doing. Plus they had SO many more colors.
So, off they went... against my better judgement. And I do mean better judgement.
Around 9:00 pm, I got a call to come pick up my beloved offspring. She was ready and she needed me to pay.
$65.00 had somehow turned into $103.00. Plus tip.
And the red? Oh, it was definitely red. Really red. Not barn red... not tomato red... but still red. A better description would be pink. Orangey pink. With a hint of crimson. It would make Lucille Ball cringe.
It made Elizabeth smile.
I can't even describe the emotion I was feeling.
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