Her Tree. My Apple.

[keiramarcos]

Mother and I were in Wal-Mart. I can't tell you how many stories I have where that is the first sentence. It is practically a given that one or both of us is going to cop an attitude with someone before we leave. Mother hits the bathroom of every single place we go on any given trip out. She's at that age. It's a requirement. So we go into Wal-Mart and first thing -- she decides to go to the bathroom. In keeping with international standards regarding such things, I go with her.

We're at the sinks when someone enters the bathroom--obviously female--but dressed kind of masculine with a very short hair cut. There was a another woman in bathroom, and she made a little huffy sound and asked, "Are we in the wrong bathroom?"

And my mother said, "I'm not. Honey, are you in the wrong bathroom?"

"Nope. Does Wal-Mart have a bathroom for intolerant, judgmental bitches? Because maybe she's in the wrong bathroom."

Mom frowned, "well, they should have a separate bathroom for intolerant, judgmental bitches -- I don't like you being around bad influences."

"Then you guys shouldn't stay in Wal-Mart long, this place is full of intolerant, judgmental bitches," the new woman said.

The Huffy woman stomps out in a snit.

And my mom exchanged a fist bump with the new woman and asked where she got her hair cut.

Twenty-five minutes later, my mom was sitting in a Cost Cutters getting her hair cut the exact same way. I got my hair cut, too. It's the shortest it's been since I was fifteen.