I waded through through the bubbling sulfur pit of Hades—also known as shopping for teenage daughters—and I’ve lived to tell the tale.
The plunge from adorable grosgrain bows and smocked dresses to a wannabe-sexy hellscape happened seemingly overnight, a phase I referred to as “four going on whore.” All of a sudden, my cherubic girls wanted to wear those faux-Lucite high heels, glitter nail polish, clip-on earrings, and JonBenét-esque lipstick in an effort to look older. At 10, my daughter Sadie tried to walk out of the house in a friend’s borrowed bandage dress, and I reacted like Jackie Kennedy in the Zapruder film.
