My Cardboard Balcony

I had never seen Amber's face turn such a shade of violet. It reminded me of when her daughter, Andrea, walked in with her hair streaked like the tail end of the rainbow. Like Roy G. Biv vomited onto her head, and the only color that wouldn't wash out was the purple. But boy, was Andrea happy. Fourteen years old, walking in with those torn jeans and black Pink Floyd T-shirt, sporting that hyper-colored hairdo like there was no tomorrow, and now her mom, two years later, was emanating that glorious hue.