As the father of two grown daughters, I’ve often found myself marking the significant milestones in their lives by the state of their hair. From those early days of wispy, angelic baby locks to the tumultuous years of adolescence and the occasional experiment with questionable bangs, hair has played an unexpected role in our family’s journey.
While my days of hands-on brushing and braiding have long passed, last week brought a flood of memories rushing back. My younger daughter, Beatrice, residing in London, was preparing to tie the knot. She had enlisted the services of a professional hairdresser and makeup artist to work their magic on her and her sister, Gwyneth, as well as my wife, Ruth.
Initially, I contemplated letting the ladies have their bonding time without my presence, but I ultimately decided to join them. After all, I had been there through Beatrice’s various hair phases – from elementary school hair wraps to middle school’s “Crazy Hair Day” extravaganzas and even her “I’m-going-to-dye-my-hair-blue-in-the-sink” episodes. Her wedding day marked the beginning of her most adult phase, a time when she was about to embark on a journey with Gabriel, the man I had the privilege of introducing to her.
I remember one of my earliest columns, written back in 1997 before officially embarking on this journalistic endeavor, where I proudly proclaimed myself a dad who did hair. I humorously mused, “I suppose if I had two sons, I would be dealing with, well, scabs or something.” Yet, fate blessed me with girls, and thus, their hair became an integral part of my world.
During those years, Ruth left for work before the rest of us were even awake, leaving me as the morning’s primary hair caretaker. While I never reached the level of a true expert, I managed to handle ponytails and basic braids. The elusive French braids, however, always appeared to me as a riddle yet to be solved, like intricate puzzles woven into the very fabric of one’s skull.
It’s safe to say that my daughters were not overly impressed with their daddy’s hairstyling endeavors. Nevertheless, there’s a certain life lesson in learning to accept parental disappointments from a young age. The follies of youth indeed.
Both our girls grew up with a cascade of luscious brown locks that seemed never-ending. Their hair flowed over their shoulders, down their backs, and eventually found its way into the bathtub drain. Our daughters were practically raised on Disney heroines with their gloriously abundant tresses, but you never witnessed Ariel or Pocahontas crouched in the shower, grappling with a bottle of Liquid-Plumr. Just around the riverbend? More like, hopelessly tangled behind the U-bend.
Hence, when Beatrice turned 16, I undertook the task of teaching her the art of snaking a drain.
“It’s crucial that we instill in our children the concept of actions and consequences,” I wrote in a column during that era. “And inaction has its consequences too. The result of neglecting to regularly clean the little rubber hair trap in the bathtub is a clogged drain that can only be ignored for so long.”
I demonstrated to Beatrice how to unscrew the drain grille, uncoil the wire snake, and carefully feed it down the pipe, rotating the snake housing when met with resistance. When the snake could go no further, I instructed her to reel it back in.
“I warned her to stay alert,” I recalled in my column. “I cautioned her about potential splatter. I informed her that I was taking a few steps back. And, most importantly, I assured her that, no matter what happened, Daddy loved her.”
The memory of Beatrice’s startled shriek when she pulled out what appeared to be a drowned capybara from the drain still lingers.
On the eve of Beatrice’s wedding, she checked into a hotel room, and it was there that we all congregated: the Kelly family, Beatrice’s friends Zach, Regina, and Vivian, along with Andrea, the makeup artist, and Liv, the hairstylist.
Andrea unpacked an array of brushes, pencils, eyeliners, lipsticks, and artificial eyelashes at one end of the room. At the opposite end, Liv expertly managed an arsenal of curlers, crimpers, straighteners, and hair dryers.
Of course, Beatrice is far more than just her hair; she’s a accomplished professional. Yet, as she settled into the chair, I was reminded that one’s hair can be a window into the soul, a reflection of one’s journey through life.
Beatrice had always possessed a clear vision of what she wanted. On her wedding day, she desired a classic hairstyle – a center part, gently framing her face and raised slightly at the back. It was a modern twist on the Swinging London style, drawing inspiration from the past while embracing the future.
Every parent understands that the past and future blur together, with memories tucked away in attics, like a lock of Beatrice’s hair snipped during her first haircut, tied with a ribbon, and preserved in a baby book. The beauty of life lies in the timeless connection to that baby, no matter how gray one’s own hair may become.
