The girls were playing hair salon in their beds last night and asked if they could style my hair.

Yet another stall tactic I was not, okay, I was totally falling for it—I love getting my hair done and they’re cheap.

First Ellie yanked, attempted to wind several, rogue shoelaces she had retrieved from a basket I had no idea she had tucked away in a hidden shoelace-basket-cupboard around my now totally un-combable coif. I quickly remembered why I had turned down the Bedtime Salon experience the last couple of occasions and pretended I was late for a previous engagement at the baby’s massage parlour in the next room.

After a series of knots, clumps of hair in piles on the floor, teasing (both verbal and by brush) the girls stood back impressed with their abstract art project and Hanna said, “Wow Mom, you look really good. You look so young.”

Wait for it.

“I mean, for a really old person.”

Commence ugly cry.