The princess hair project: 82 ‘dos to do in a dad’s head

My Princess is seven. Already. Just like that. I wonder if kids get a seven-year itch and start wishing they had new parents?

If not already, Miss Seven will be soon. You see, most mornings, I’m the hairdresser. The stylist. Sadly, I haven’t had a mop of my own for a good decade or more. And even top shelf instructions can only do so much for a bald(ish) man with fat fingers and a fidgety daughter.

As I watch her cheeks grow full, then candles extinguish in a rush of air, I find it hard to believe it’s been seven years. One third of the way to her 21st. Surely not.

It’s a celebration of clichés. ‘Where did the time go?’ I remember the day my life changed forever. It feels like just yesterday.’

In truth, it feels like last week. Because it was last week.

The single most terrifying moment of my life.

I trudge in from work on a Sunday evening. Miss Style is giggling. "Show Daddy the book we bought today," suggests Mum. The Princess is excited. Perhaps a little too excited.

Not Enid Blyton then, or Winnie the Pooh. Possibly a book on puppies. Maybe even something a bit rude. That’ll be it. Captain Underpants would explain the joyfully wicked glint I’m sure I detected.

She comes running back in, book behind her back. My suspicion grows. It could even be a fart book, given the delight I’m reading in her face. This should be a fun bedtime read.

She flashes the cover in my direction. I feel like one of her birthday candles. Burning brightly, happily, excited for what’s to come one moment. Then extinguished in an instant. A pathetic little puff of smoke escapes as I squeak in horror.

HAIR ROMANCE the title screams at me.

There’s a subtitle, too. Fancy.

‘How to create 82 fabulous hairstyles’.

I thought there were just three – long hair, short hair and no hair.

I have no business with this book. I glance, beaten, at my wife.

“Why?” I mouth silently. “WHY?”

As if that’s important. Or will change anything. It won’t. Tomorrow’s Monday. And I’m on hair duty.

Except, it won’t be a simple ponytail, will it? It’ll be the wrapped ponytail, or the twist-over ponytail, or the quiffed ponytail. What the hell is a quiff anyway?

I should point out that I’m not the worst Dad when it comes to hair. I know men who could solve a seven sided Rubik's Cube before they’d work out how to run a comb through their daughters’ hair.

Out of necessity, I have learned to do a mean ponytail. High and low. I can even plait a little. I can manage a makeshift bun for dance class. But braids are a complete mystery.

Along with approximately 81 other styles in this book.

I note it’s written by a young woman called Christina Butcher. Who also did the hair for the models. And took the photographs. And modelled a bit herself. Of course she did. Because she's talented.

And her hairromance.com beauty blog is apparently ‘wildly popular’. So she’s got me there too.

But, I’m going to try to emulate her achievements. Or at least create something that vaguely resembles the perfectly coiffed hair in her book. Wish me luck.

“Can we do the one that looks like a heart on the back of my head?” Miss Seven pleads in the morning. *That'd be the 'heart shaped angel plait' for those playing along at home.

“No.”

It was a rough response. But it’s for the best. She’ll be stepping outside the house today.

I turn to something a little more manageable. A triple plait.

I reckon I’ve done OK. After all it’s just three plaits, which are then plaited again. Four plaits in all. Four times longer spent doing battle with my daughter’s fine hair.

I’m no Vidal Sassoon, but I’ve now managed a few more of the basic styles. Some of them have even stayed in all day.

There’s the fishtail plait. The figure 8 plait. The stacked pony tail. Even the twist-over pony tail. That one looked good for a couple of minutes before tumbling out again.

And then, there’s the Angel Hair braid. The 'basic' version. I did mention I can’t braid, didn’t I?

I gather the hair, reach for the spray bottle of water. It’s damp, surely I can do this.

Can’t. Get. Those Stray. Hairs.

More water. That’s what I need.

Why won’t this hair do what it’s told?

More water.

Still strays.

More water.

There. That’s close. Or not.

I pull it apart and complete a perfect, but very plain, ponytail.

“It’s OK Daddy,” she smiles at me. Or is that a smirk? “Mummy can do the easy ones. You can do all the others.”