My daughter had been begging to get some highlights in her hair. A lot of the girls are getting a red streak or something funky. So my sister in law said she would pay for it. It took two weeks to get the appointment, and of course it would be at the same time Skylar's supposed to be playing in a basketball game. Playoffs. Optimistically, we go to the salon, hoping the appointment will be quick. Skylar found a picture of the hair color she wanted. It was bold, with light blonde, dark brown, and a few streaks of reddish color. The hairstylist was a sweetheart. She bought four of my books, so of course she was. But Skylar experienced what most women will be well acquainted with in their lives. It's almost impossible to get hairstylists to understand the color or style you want, even if you have a picture. The color turned out so subtle, it wasn't worth the $130 my sister in law paid. Skylar was disappointed needless to say, but I told her. "It's just beginning, darling. Get used to it. It took me a quarter of a century to find someone I like."
Dad, on the other hand, was pleased that the color job failed. We'd forgotten to tell him she was thinking of a bold color and he wasn't too pleased at the thought of his little girl with multicolored hair. I can't really blame him. I just caved to the pressure. My kids are good at exerting pressure. In preschool my son told his teacher that if he just asked and asked and kept asking, eventually I would give him what he wanted.
From the failed hair appointment we rushed to the basketball game. It was late starting, so we made it in time for the second half, but Skylar had just got out there when she was knocked down and she cut her knee. It wasn't just her. Everyone was getting knocked down. After a horrendous game, we slapped on a bandage and rushed home for the next event. My son's date. Sort of date. He's just about to turn 14, and he was supposed to meet his girlfriend and some friends at the mall, then go to the movies.
They were running late, so we had to wait for an hour. Finally, they arrived. The plan was for them to hang out at the mall for a while, then hubby and I would pick them up and drop them at the movies, but you know how plans go. Especially with a bunch of teenagers. They didn't show up at the appointed time. I waited for half an hour, ready to pull my fingernails out. Then, five minutes before the movie was ready to start, I called the mall and had them page him. Of course he comes out as soon as I end the call. Rush, rush, rush to the theater. Come to a screeching halt, throw the kids out in front, speed off to find a parking spot in the same galaxy, meet hubby who's with my daughter, and finally we sit. Relaxation, at last. Or so I thought.
After the movie, my daughter talked me into taking her to the mall to spend her babysitting money. She didn't get to go to the mall for the first trip. I'm brain dead from that trip, but like the pushover that I am, off we go. Have you ever walked the mall with an 11 year old? I have, many times, and I can say I'm too old for this. I love shopping, but she makes me feel like I need a wheelchair. She ran into a friend and they spent a while chatting, then just as I thought we were ready to leave, she ran into two more friends. Instead of going to the car, we started back through the mall with them.
I was a walking zombie by then, with two aching feet. I mindlessly swiped my credit card in the photo booth and waited for them to take goofy pictures of themselves, as I longed to be anywhere else. Then, joy of joys, one of the moms offered her a sleepover. Yes! I hobbled to the car, managed to drive myself home, and since I was too tired to think, much less write, I crawled into bed without even taking off my make up.
That was this writer's weekend. Not much writing, but my kids had fun, and in the end, that's probably more important.