It was the Year 11 prom on Friday evening.
Eldest had her first visit to a beauty salon to have her nails painted and her eyelashes dyed. She spent the morning wearing a pair of paper flip-flops provided by the salon as neither of us had thought about wet toe nails. (I took Youngest to Town for a guitar exam so couldn’t whisk her home.) I was allowed to wield a set of heated rollers leant to me by a friend to get an evening look for her hair, but not to help with make-up since she rarely sees me in any and didn’t think much of my suggestions. (I mostly can’t be bothered and Husband doesn’t like it.) She went to the hotel with her friends in a 1947 fire-engine (they loved ringing the bell and the journey seems to have been a bit of a highlight) and was picked up again at midnight by her Dad. She’d had a lovely time. (And we were much relieved that she had abandoned a ‘plan’ to set up tents in an unknown field to continue partying…) We are very proud.
The other prom dress was also a success, pictures will follow on receipt.
No, I don't know when an end of year dance became a prom: it just seems to be so.
Two Dolores Batwings and #2018makenine
7 hours ago