I went in for my annual “plucking of the whites” yesterday morning. A similar exercise to the running of the bulls in Pamplona in that I’m like a confused, angry bull when I enter the salon and my stylist wears a red cape.

 
The sun was shining, birds were singing, the Aveda tea was flowing and I was in my happy place; the swivel chair that with one pump of a person’s foot lifts my spirits and the better part of my torso.

 
I enjoy the experience of visiting the hair salon. I love the treatment by the staff, the smells, the conversations and the way I feel when I leave (right after I slip my receipt through the shredder before Greg finds out how much it costs to look so natural).
That is of course until I pick up my kids from school.

 
Yesterday, we arrived home, unpacked school bags and lunches, someone asked for a treat while another asked to play on an electronic device despite our conversation on the way home, “We are not just running into the house to turn on our electronic devices and beg for treats.”

 
We made fruit smoothies (Chloe’s request), we printed a picture for Ellie to trace and Hanna began folding the laundry.

 
After two hours of being in the same house, I asked the girls, “Did anyone notice that I got my hair cut today?”

 
Ellie said, “Oh, that’s what’s different! I was wondering.” (No she wasn’t)

 
Hanna said, “Mom, it looks so beautiful. I didn’t even recognize you.”

 
She didn’t recognize me? How did she get into my vehicle after school? Who did she think was standing in front of her making her dinner?

 
Chloe, the five year old saved the day when she asked how old I was. When I suggested she should guess, I knew what was coming.

 
“Ten thousand and five?”