"I said no."

"But why?"

"Because I say so."

"That's not an answer, Mom. It's my hair. Why do you care?"

"Because you're my daughter, so technically, your hair is mine too."

"Well, by that rule of three, your hair is mine aswell."

"Okay, fair enough."

"I don't like the way you do my hair."

"I don't do your hair. You've been doing it yourself since you were no taller/bigger than the kitchen table."

"I mean the part of my hair that is on your head."

"Rebbeca, do you think I was born yesterday?"

"You wish."

"Watch your mouth."

"I'm sorry."

"All right, let's talk turkey: your hair can't take any more. You've dyed it several times in just one year and now you want to dye it blue?"

"Or pink, like Katy Perry."

"Same thing. Dying is dying, whatever the color."

"What about a tattoo?"

"Worse."

"A piercing?"

"Listen, why don't you go "pierce" your books instead of wasting your time? And mine, for that matter."

"Ok, don't get so pushy. I'm just throwing out some ideas here for improvement..."

"Then go move the needle inside your head, not outside it."