By Amber Hope
“Good news,” I said to my middle-schooler as I tore open the letter that I had been waiting for all summer. “We’re going to Sephoraaaa!” I waved the home equity loan approval in the air as if I had just landed on Free Parking. Never mind that it would take ten years to repay the debt. After all, I’m middle-aged; I’ve got nothing but time.
For those of you childless freaks, back-to-school shopping has become the new American dream because, let’s face it, my daughter will never be able to afford a house of her own. So, I cashed out the equity in mine and we headed to the makeup counter. I couldn’t question the list of required supplies for seventh grade. After all, how could my daughter grow to be a girl boss without a good foundation?
“And look at this, an eighty-four-dollar, half-ounce tube that perfectly matches your skin tone!”
My eleven-year-old scoffed, and I put it back. How could I be so insensitive to assume that she only needs foundation when everyone knows primer is the first step in preparing for success against free radicals? And just in time, Edith appeared to help her choose wisely.
The peel and stick name tag suggested she’s a new hire, though her orthopedic shoes and carpal tunnel sleeve hint at time served inside a Sears and Roebuck — perhaps a stint at Service Merchandise. There’s a temporary, part time air about her that I don’t trust. Does she even know the difference between lip plumper and Lumi Glow?
Edith unlocked the restricted cabinet designated for high rollers like me, and I caught a whiff of “God Is a Woman,” Ariana Grande’s pungent bestseller. Well played, Edith. We traded knowing looks. She’s got the key ring; I have an 820-credit score. We’re both thinking the same thing — it’s going to be a productive year.
“Mom!” My eleven-year-old summoned me over to the hair care section. It was out of Edith’s jurisdiction. I assured her I would be back.
“I need this molecular, anti-frizz hair mask.” My little one presented an apothecary-style beaker and pipette.
“Ooh, sounds like someone’s getting an A in science!” I threw a bottle of hyaluronic acid-infused conditioner in the basket to seal her top-class rank. Did middle school honor valedictorians? I’d better save the receipt.
Edith gave me the stink eye when we exited the black-and-white striped fortress and ventured across the hall to their bright orange-clad competitor, Ulta.
Now, this is what back-to-school was all about. A shampoo, cut, and blowout for the bargain price of $393? Please, don’t insult my creditworthiness. Let’s make it an even $400. Hey, Shampoo Girl, go get yourself something nice.
As my cherub-faced offspring lounged in the salon chair, having her scalp massaged by Vanessa, a single mom of three, I felt a twinge of guilt. My angel hadn’t bought a stitch of back-to-school denim. Her knobby knees barely poked out of her pants. I vowed to find the nearest Hollister and rectify the situation, lest my child enter the cafeteria wearing pants that looked like they weren’t fished out of a dumpster. Who was I kidding — my kid doesn’t eat school lunch.
Her sophisticated palate trended toward seaweed and something called Pho, best enjoyed at room temperature in the newly renovated student tranquility lounge. It used to be the library, but after our successful “No Proud Parents” crusade to ban all books, we have plenty of room for activities in which the children refuse to participate.
But I won’t let disinterest in extracurricular clubs or sports dampen the mood of our most beloved back-to-school tradition — shoe shopping. My stick-thin, uncoordinated daughter and I scoured Footlocker and the like for the elusive throwback Nikes made from the calf skin of Michael Jordan himself. There’s no limit to the lengths that I will go to find the Air Jordan 1 OG High Chicagos for my little girl who has never set foot on a basketball court. I’ll hawk the title to my husband’s truck and place a bid with Sotheby’s. Fingers crossed, it’s going to be a great year!