The Braidy Crunch

My daughter stood in the doorway to the kitchen and stared at me while she displayed a pair of elastic hair bands in her palm. Were we about to play a new game? Her mouth quivered. She fought back tears, and I could tell I was seconds away from fighting back my own.

I asked what was bothering her. “Mommy went to work, but I forgot to ask her to braid my hair,” she said.

I bent down to pick her up, and then holding her in my arms, I patted her on the back and said, “That’s okay, Sweetie. I’ll braid your hair.” She smiled, thanked me and skipped off to brush her teeth and put on her sneakers. I wondered why I had quit Cub Scouts before I mastered rope skills, and then I thought, I can’t believe I was in Cub Scouts. To this day, about the only things I can tie are my shoelaces.

When she was ready, my daughter rushed into the living room and hopped onto the couch. We had 15 minutes to make this happen. I had no time to remember that I spent most of my childhood playing baseball not hair salon.

My little Rapunzel sat facing the back of the couch with her legs crisscrossed, and she guided me through the braiding process as if she were coaxing me away from a ledge, which is where I was at this point. “It’s just three strands of hair daddy, and you just keep putting the outside piece over the middle piece,” she told me. “Here’s my doll with a braid. Practice with her,” she pleaded. And if I have time afterward, I’ll make balloon animals and origami birds that you can bring to class.

“Is everything okay, Daddy?” she asked me a couple of minutes later.

“It’s getting there,” I replied, standing behind her while I fumbled through her hair with fingers that had morphed into cheese curl snacks. I had struggled with dividing her hair into three manageable sections. Surgeons have had an easier time separating conjoined triplets, I’m sure.

I certainly could use a hairdresser on speed dial. Or better yet, Sailor Jack from the Cracker Jack box. Maybe the toy surprise will be an automatic braider.

I peeked over my shoulder at the play clock. Seven minutes to go. Do I have any timeouts? Oh, right, this isn’t a football game. Over under, left then right. I’m on a roll! I’ll sign up for that local class on oriental rug weaving after all.

With a couple of minutes to spare, I completed the braid. For the finishing touch: the ponytail. Voila. “Okay, Sweetie, all set.”

Of course, my daughter, like any normal woman interested in her own hair, ran into the bathroom to perform quality control. She returned in tears. “Daddy, you forgot to connect the braid to the ponytail.” Crap.

“You’re right, Sweetie. I’m sorry.” Easily fixed, right? Not with an unruly hair elastic that insists on twisting and untwisting itself like a doped-up worm on a fish hook. I know: I’ll grab one of those twist ties that stores use for bread bags. But then I’d have to make a sign that reads “Daddy did my hair this morning, and we have stale bread.” No time for that.

Finally, with zero ticks on the clock and me feeling as if I had just wrestled and roped a calf in a rodeo competition, braid and ponytail were bound together.

My daughter smiled and danced out the door with a hop in her stride that all parents want their children to keep forever. I looked down to see if my shoes were tied.

© 2011 by Mike Farley