Now that she got her nails done, my daughter had to find something else to bug for, which was a haircut. “Mom, my bangs are TOTALLY LONG! It’s so annoying!” Awright, awright. I take her to the local rock and roll cheap haircut joint. The walls are covered with handbills from Seattle punk clubs, the music is hard and loud, the stylists usually pretty alternative-looking, yet they are unfailingly nice, very competent, take walk-ins, and like kids. Moreover, they are directly across from the Starbucks and mere steps away from the Other Other Good Coffee Place, the sushi carousel joint, the gringo Mexican restaurant, and the dog wash place, where my dog got bathed today. Now my sweet mild-tempered dog smells like a man wearing Drakkar. It’s kind of disturbing. But better than dog smell, I guess.

So my kid and I wait until it is her turn. We look at a copy of In Style magazine, and rate the dresses we see on the pages. We often agree that we like none of them. I laugh when she tells me how she doesn’t like a particular strapless purple dress, pointing at the girl’s cleavage , saying “you can see her bra crack, and that’s inappropriate.” As it turns out, her stylist today is a great big metalhead dude with shoulder-length black hair, lots of tats, chains, heavy black boots, and a nice smile. She is not fazed in the least that he outweighs her by about 200 lbs. and she about stands as high as his silver-studded belt. She clambers up onto the chair, tells him her bangs are annoying, and he tells her, “Cool. We’ll fix that right up for you, doll.” He looks back at me and smiles, and I smile back, and go back to reading In Style.

When she is done, I tell her she did a good job holding still, she thanks the metalhead dude, and he gets her a cherry Blowpop. We walk over to the fountain by the OOG Coffee Shop, because she wants to make some wishes. I fish out a nickel and a penny for her to toss into the water. I see her grin widely, then plop plop, the two coins go in. Before I can tell her not to tell me what she wished for, she comes over and grabs my hand and says, “I wished for a real tattoo.” I immediately find the last coin at the bottom of my bag, a dime, throw it in the fountain, and make my own wish.