My son asked which weekend I could come to Milwaukee, and I caught myself working out whether I could fit two clients in before the train. This is supposed to be a visit, not a traveling appointment. I had the booking screen open while he was still talking about what we'd cook. So I closed it and asked him the dates again. The younger stylist can take the Saturday people if they want, and if they don't, there's the following week. I know that perfectly well when I'm advising somebody else. I'm going to buy the ticket first this time, before I turn a free weekend into a complicated favor that everybody has to thank me for.

Tried on the shoes I wore to my daughter's wedding and my feet said absolutely not. Same feet, same shoes, just six hours standing at the salon before I got this bright idea. The left one went on fine until I stood up, then I could feel every little bone across the front. I stayed by the dresser a minute because they really do look good. Took them off. My calves still had those deep sock marks when I sat down to eat, and rubbing lotion in felt better than I expected, enough that I did the other leg properly instead of one quick swipe. I'm wearing the wide black pair to dinner. He'll be looking at my face, hopefully.

A client who's been coming to me since her oldest was a baby booked with the younger stylist on my Friday off. Sensible. Exactly what I told her to do. Then she sent me a picture saying she loved the cut, and I found myself enlarging the back to inspect it. There wasn't a thing wrong with it, which somehow annoyed me more. I wrote back that she looked beautiful because she did. I want my time back, I keep telling everybody that, but apparently I also want them to struggle a little without me. That's not generous. I'm glad she stayed in the salon. Still haven't asked how their appointment went, and normally I'd have asked three questions by now.