“What d’ya think?” I asked my daughter, proudly displaying my freshly manicured hands.
She glanced over and frowned.
“Ugh what?” I wondered. “You don’t like the color?”
“I don’t like the color on you!” she responded before going back to her game.
I pondered this for a minute. “You don’t think they go with my hands?” I asked.
“I don’t think they go with your AGE!” she said.
I glowered at her and then surveyed my royal blue nails. True, they weren’t subtle. But I thought they were different and cool and a fun departure from my usual French manicure.
Apparently though, what I thought was cool was different than what my daughter thought was cool. And clearly blue nail polish… on me… was just wrong.
Now, this wasn’t the first time we had a difference of opinion regarding my fashion/beauty choices. My daughter was also not a fan of my:
-red leather motorcycle jacket (I looked like “a washed up biker chick en route to the Early Bird Special”),
-fringed cowboy boots (an “over the hill cowgirl who fell off the Metamusil wagon”),
-black leather mini skirt (an “escapee from a nursing home for retired hookers”).
Since I vehemently disagreed with her assessment, I kept wearing my jacket, boots, and skirt. But when they mysteriously disappeared from my closet, I had a feeling it wasn’t because the fashion police had come to my house to seize the evidence. After a quick search of the house, I found the missing items in my daughter’s room. I realized that while my daughter thought my clothing choices were awful for me, apparently, they were totally cool enough for her.
“Do you have any idea what my leather jacket was doing in your room?” I asked her innocently after I picked her up from school.
“I borrowed it,” she replied.
“Borrowing involves asking the owner if you can use an item temporarily and then returning it when you’re done.”
“It was just as much for you as for me,” she explained. “I’m saving you from the embarrassment of people judging you negatively for wearing something that is inappropriate for your age.”
I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure that the only one who is embarrassed by what I’m wearing… is you,” I said to her. She pondered this for a moment. And then finally said what was on her mind.
“It’s just not what moms should wear,” she declared.
I thought about all the things I had worn in public since I’d become a mom, including harem pants, hideous flannel shirts, shirts with peanut butter and jelly stains on them, hair scrunchies, a fluffy yellow ducky bathrobe, and the mother of all fashion offenses… mom jeans, and I realized that age appropriateness non-withstanding, my recent fashion choices were a vast improvement over what moms typically have to wear.
“Tell you what,” I said to her. “You can borrow my leather jacket as long as you stop making fun of my nails.”
“Deal!” she replied. “Now can we talk about Dad’s chinos…”