Daughter's hair is not dad's forte

Overall, I'm pretty confident when it comes to my skills as a parent.

But there's one area in particular where I feel totally inadequate.

My daughter's hair.

There's a number of factors playing into this. For starters, I stink at hair. Even my own. I have like 12 cowlicks, can't get it how I want it, and generally have no idea. So I keep it short.

But my daughter has the added bonus of being half black. So I can't even maneuver my straight, smooth hair — what makes anyone think I can do thick, uneven, hair? I know it could be worse, and in actuality many people have much worse hair than she does. But it doesn't matter. I'm clueless when it comes to hair.

Well, apparently it's expected of me. Our day care worker called a meeting with my wife, saying that Kiki's hair should be a certain way before she comes in so the sitter doesn't have to take care of it.

Needless to say, that made me really, really angry. My first thought was I was just being defensive. And maybe I was. But it doesn't mean the sitter has a point.

For starters, I love Kiki's hair. Absolutely love it. Those free-wheeling curls on top of her head as she jumps, plays, flashes her cute smile or even throws a temper-tantrum — it truly is unique. Her hair adds to her already abundant personality. And for the moment, she's not too particularly concerned about her hair. Of course, she's only four. I understand that will change real soon.

Besides, no one is asking the day care worker to take care of her hair. Certainly not me. If my wife wants to put the time in to take care of Kiki's hair — it's a 20-minute process that involves this homemade water and olive oil concoction — that's her prerogative. I stay away from all-hair related decisions.

As I should. I have other strong points. For example, I never realized how well I can dress a 4-year-old girl. Apparently, I have an eye for clothes at that age. Sure, my daily wardrobe of polo shirt-slacks or jeans-T-shirt on off days — not to mention my love of shorts — may contradict that, but it's true. Heaven help me, I don't mind clothes shopping with my daughter. Again, I know that will change soon enough.

And I kick all types of butt in buying toys. That's where my playful (some would say immature) side helps in droves. I've bought maybe two duds for three children in four years of toy buying.

But that dreaded hair. That hair that apparently isn't cute unless it's braided tighter than a hipster's jeans.

What do I know? I love the wild, crazy ball of fuzz. Sure, even if I despised it that way I wouldn't have a choice — especially when a pony tail is a long and involved process.

Besides, when Kiki is good and ready, she'll learn to do her own hair. Then maybe, just maybe, I can finally have a good hair-containment instructor.