Her face crumpled. “It was just a little joke,” she muttered.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Ryan said. “You’re going to pay for every treatment it takes to fix this, or you’re uninvited from the wedding.
If you ever pull something like this again, you won’t be welcome in our lives.”
Linda blanched.
“But I’m your mother!”
“And Sarah’s going to be my wife. Time to decide what’s more important: being right, or being part of our lives.”
The day before the wedding, after three unsuccessful attempts to strip the green, I sat in our bathroom fighting back tears.
Ryan walked in, holding a bowl filled with hair dye.
“If you can’t beat ’em…” He grinned.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
And that’s how we ended up walking down the aisle with matching green hair, grinning like idiots while our guests tried not to stare.
My dad nearly choked on his laughter, and even my mother had to admit we looked “uniquely us.” Linda sat in the back row, looking like she’d swallowed a lemon.
Sometimes the best revenge isn’t getting even — it’s showing the world that nothing, not even nuclear-waste-colored hair, can dim your happiness.
