🚘 Accessorizing, Categorizing, and Other -ings Daddies Don’t Do

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc
photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

Daddy! I need your help!

I’ve heard this once or twice. It can mean, “I got a pizza-sauce stain on my sister’s school shirt!” It could mean, “I’ve toppled a beer display at Food Lion, and the manager hasn’t seen it.”

It also could mean something mischievous is about to happen to a relative.

Camdyn needed my expertise in sorting out hair accessories. Me? Really? It’s like asking Ndamukong Suh for directions to the kindness march. accessoriesCamdyn wanted me to help her sort out girl hair accessories into four categories:

  1. Rubberbands/clips
  2. Poofy rubberbands
  3. Elastic headbands
  4. Regular headbands

Oh, and contribute to a pile of “yard sale/trash” offerings. (“Anything too stretched out goes there, dad,” she explained. “Or if it has Tinkerbell or princesses on it.)

(“But don’t write a story that says I don’t like Tinkerbell. Or princesses.”)

Sure, Camdyn. You’re asking the man who has two categories of hair accessories on his radar – those that hurt when I step on them, and those that don’t.

So, I’d better ask some questions.

Me: Why do you girls love your sidebangs so much?

Camdyn: They make us look pretty in church.

(This makes little sense to a man who hasn’t used a comb since 1987, nor had a haircut since, well, I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure it was in 2012).

Me: Why do we have to do this?

Camdyn: Because Madison just throws them on the floor.

photo credit: Disney Fairies Tink's Pirate Fairy Bling Boutique at Target 4/14/14 via photopin (license)
photo credit: Disney Fairies Tink’s Pirate Fairy Bling Boutique at Target 4/14/14 via photopin (license)

Good point. So the sorting went on, and so did the learning. Out went the Tinkerbell pieces (Shh!), along with those too worn out to hold together the daily paper for a Tuesday.

Clips congregated in the safety of their numbers, out of harm’s (and my feet’s) way.

The kid can accessorize.

She’s the child who helped me organize my own stuff, with such helpful hints as rolling up my belts, stacking up my soccer shirts, and splitting up my underwear into “favorites” and “not so favorites.”

For the record: None of those had Tinkerbell on them.

Or princesses.

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