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My eight year-old daughter has big dreams of growing up and working at a salon. 
She even said she is down for quitting school and working in one right now. 
Cool. This girl has major goals.





I told her I am totally supportive of her plan as long as she completes the third grade first. 



"Deal!" she squealed.




I mean, in what other job are you paid to listen to gossiping women and make them feel beautiful? 




She's been telling me how she needs new make up so today I bought her a new make-up bag and  make-up for helping me so much with Ryker. 



She was ecstatic.



And ever since she got serious about her career path a few hours ago, she has been wandering aimlessly around the house begging people to let her give them the extreme makeover that they just won.




 "Come on... please, CJ. Your cheeks will be on fire with my new BB cream!" she excitedly told CJ.




I explained to her that descriptive words like  "fire" would probably not be good  to use when you are trying to con people into a make over. 



"Well, it is burning my eyes." she explained, "that's why I said that."




A few minutes ago she plopped Raigen into a chair and told her that it was her lucky day. She had been selected at random to receive a makeover.




Raigen agreed as long as Rilyn would let Raigen do her make up in exchange.




Apparently, there is only room for one professional stylist in this family. 
Rilyn's words not mine.




 "That's so not fair, Rilyn!" Raigen cried, "I thought you trusted me with everything!" she screamed, storming off.



"Get use to people having emotional breakdowns in front of their hair stylists," I  explained.




"Well, I can't work in this kind of job thingy if all my clients are going to cry at their appointments." she explained.




Since her victim escaped... she was very upset.




I over heard her talking to CJ, crying. "I am just trying to follow my dreams." she sobbed as she applied lip gloss for the thirteenth time.



Her lips sparkled like the fourth of July.




I'm not sure what happened next, but next thing I know, I am strapped, I mean... sitting in a chair. With my life flashing before my eyes. 



Mascara being applied by an eight year old = scary. 




And lucky me, as soon as my make up was done she moved on to nails.




She pulled out one single pink sparkly press on nail. 





One I had never seen before.




"Where did you get those?" I asked, assuming I was getting a full set.





"I found it on the floor at the movies," she explained. 




"Ah, Wonderful," I replied.





I ended the make over promptly after that. 




When she tried to stop me I told her I had to poop and it would be impossible to wipe my butt with my fake nail and that she may have to wipe my butt for me.



She agreed to let me go after that.



And I spent the next 30 minutes in the bathroom with the fart-fan on trying to scrub off three layers of BB cream and bronzer.