Everyone could see the girl from our school was struggling with hair past her knees, and nobody understood her father — at the concert she said it herself: “I asked him to cut it. He said we have to wait until I’m seventeen.”
My daughter is in the same class as Pia Drummond, whose hair goes past the back of her knees.
Her father is early to everything. Every assembly, every sports day, every concert. He comes straight off shift, so it gets done on site — he brings a little mirror in from the van, sits her on a chair in the corridor and does it himself.
French plaits. Ribbons. Pins. By the end of an evening not one strand has come down.
And half the parents melt.
***Look at that dad. Not every man can even do a plait.***
And every single time, I look at it and I do
