Chicken Glamour Shots

I know.

You didn’t even know this was a thing.

You didn’t realize that seven years of collecting chickens could turn into something like this.

That six children on summer break and an enterprising mother could:

catch chickens

wash their feat

fluff their feathers

paint their nails

feed them grass in the green room

set up a back drop

take them inside

convince them not to poop

or runaway {of course one totally did after Bennett dropped a large amount of bright, pink nail polish on her feathers and we had to get a new one}

and patiently have them wait till it was their turn.

Then they positively shined.

{This post is dedicated to my mother: who hates all things chickens: from their nails, to their warm, fresh eggs with butt feathers lingering on the outside, to their poop, to their spontaneous bouts of flying randomly at peole who think they are the worst.}

Katie