Me~"No, I never said I wouldn't let you get colored hair. I said I wouldn't let you get lots of SHOCKING streaks of colored hair. And that's a feather, not blue hair." (busy reading a magazine)
Jules~"Nuh uh. It's just like colored hair. I never said I wanted to get a thousand pieces of colored hair. I only wanted one—just ONE red piece of hair. But you said it was 'worldly.' " (head bob and pursed lips)
Me~(putting magazine down and making eye contact) "Why exactly did you come in here? To start an argument? Do you, or do you not have a fun blue feather in your hair?" (ignoring the impulse to slap her)
Now am I missing something? Because from my point of view, the correct response was, "Thank you, dear Mother, for allowing me to not only live, but to do so in the manner to which I've become accustomed. Most especially, for supporting me in plugging a trendy, unnecessary and overpriced chicken feather into my skull. Life, as I know it, is good, and I have only you and your generosity to thank."
Instead, I opened the door to an 11 year old version of the fast talking, sweating, cleaning supply sales lady from the South who wants to use my bathroom, dropped off on my street by a white van.
In other words...not what I expected when I heard the knock.