Some tasks have my name written all over them. Taking out the garbage, killing spiders and replacing light bulbs come to mind. I’m free to do these any day, any time.
Then there’s the list of jobs I’m never asked to do.
Just ahead of washing delicates is doing the girls hair.
But today was an exception because we were late for church and Kim was busy chasing after Kai.
I called Luca to the bathroom and pulled out a brush. She must have felt like she’d gone to an upscale salon only to find out a first semester cosmetology student would be cutting her hair.
“Wrong brush, dad”
Off to a good start.
I open three drawers looking for one brush that – well – looks like a brush. Some of the tools I uncover look useful only if the goal is to remove sections of scalp. Definitely above my pay grade.
I eventually stumble upon a brush that doesn’t appear to have been created to inflict pain, and I begin to run it through Luca’s hair.
“Spray some of that first”
I pickup a small spray bottle that looks entirely too much like one I used on shirts I ironed a while back. No wonder they smelled strange.
This seems to help the comb move through the hair. I comb the sides and the back. We’re making progress.
But when it comes to combing Luca’s bangs I have no clue. Right or left. Pulled forward or back. Nothing I do seems to look right. It can’t be this hard, I tell myself. Do I need more spray? Should I break out the hair dryer?
I need a miracle.
Just as I’m about to call for mom, Luca jumps up on the counter and looks in the mirror. She turns her head to the left. Then to the right.
“Looks good, dad”
She gives me a hug, jumps off the counter and runs downstairs.
Just call me Gene Juarez from here on out.