My mother used to make me wear brown, patent leather shoes and hold her hand, as we walked to the Piggly Wiggly for a half gallon of milk and a bag of frozen tater-tots. My friend Wilton’s mother used to make him wear an apron and wipe down the counters after every meal. My friend Brent’s ma used to make him hold her purse while she shopped for those old lady undergarments that look like bathing suits from the 1920s.
But never once did any of us have to give our mom a full body massage and tie her bikini top back on after she attempted to brown her alabaster flesh. This kid has no chance of not being a hair stylist, that is if he doesn’t become an interior designer first.
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