Shopping for clothes with my daughter used to be easy. When she was young.
There was nothing to it. We would walk into a store, I would grab the first shirt that had a bear or a giraffe on it, she would coo and shout, “I LOVE it!!!” and before you could say, “lickety split,” we were on the way to the cash register.
How things change when you hit the teenage years. When your daughter turns 13 and fashions herself a fashionista. Someone who can strut about a store, trying on everything, saying things like, “Darling, I think that looks di-VINE on you,” and thinking her father is not only made of money, but doesn’t mind plunking it down over this or that.
An $84 crop top with a manufactured hole to look like a rat ate it? Yes, please!
She’s no longer young.