It’s Saturday night again, so we rush upstairs to the main bedroom. Our secretary is already here. Bent down and swimming through my mother’s clothing draw. He dresses well but always smells like Tuna To Go. My mother lowers her plastic reading glasses and scuttles forward on the carpet floors. “It might be under the essential oils,” she says. Her bleached, dark blue business suit scrunches as she bends down to help. 

The doorbell rings. She gets up and scurries back to me to fix my quiff. The secretary rummages faster. 

“Okay baby, just like how we practiced okay?” So, I nod and make my way downstairs.

I wish I had my old long hair back. I don't think it makes me look unprofessional