Scooting To The Hairdresser

I took G for a haircut last week. Or, more accurately, G took herself, scooting along like this as I ambled along in front. We were only going a few streets from where we live, but it still took ages. So long in fact, I gave up after a while and had to pick both her and the scooter up, and walk to make sure we got there in time.

We would have got there sooner if G hadn't spent ten minutes refusing to put her helmet on before we got out of the house. Every time I went to fasten the clip of her strap tightly under her chin, she burst into tears and stomped off. On about the fifth time, I managed to distract her enough with something else to finally get her helmet on, and she realised it hadn't been anything worth getting upset about in the first place. Fifth time is better than five-hundredth time, but still, I don't intend to let her make a habit of it.

No Pictures

As we left the house in bright sunshine this morning, I went to take a picture of G. She had put her sunglasses on, and Mrs J had put her hair into bunches. Given that whenever G's hair is done up nicely it's usually only a matter of minutes before she takes everything out again, I thought I'd better get in quickly.

Clearly, G wasn't so keen on getting her photo taken. Maybe she was trying to stay incognito for some reason, like she's been involved in a controversy at nursery and wants to keep her head down. If I see her looking at the disguises next time we're at the supermarket, I'll know that something's up.

At The Hairdresser

I took G along to a salon in Uppermill to get her hair cut today. Mrs J is determined that G should grow her hair out, so I was under strict instructions to ensure this was just a little tidy-up. Walking in I counted three hairdressers and three customers, all women, so with G there too I was outnumbered seven to one. Not quite the worst ratio I've ever experienced, but enough to take me out of my comfort zone. I haven't had my hair cut in a salon since I was about 12, so I really have no idea what to do in these places.

As the hairdresser got started, I noticed little bits of something in the top of G's hair. "Oh, that's probably left over from her breakfast," I said, truthfully. G's hair often gets in her way (she usually refuses hair clips point blank), so I think nothing of picking tiny bits of own-brand Shreddies out of it during the morning. But I can't imagine the women were particularly impressed that I'd led my daughter's hair get into such a state.

At least G was well-behaved throughout, helped by the In The Night Garden magazine I'd got for the occasion. And her hair's immaculate now too, at least until breakfast time tomorrow.

Who's This?

Not actually as daft a question as it first appears. Usually, when picking G up from nursery, I just look for her distinctive mop of hair, which is particularly long and thick by two-year-old standards.

But one day last week I couldn't see her among all the other toddlers until one of the helpers pointed her out. They'd tied her hair up (to keep it away from her snotty nose, naturally), and it made G look completely different. You could even spot her rarely-seen ears. Proof that she does have them, even though the way she repeatedly ignores my instructions suggests she thinks she can fool me into believing otherwise.

Hair Salon

I've been taking G for haircuts for a while, and the trip to one of the alarmingly many (for a village) salons in Uppermill for a quick tidy-up is now a fairly regular event. And a quick tidy-up is all it is, because Mrs J wants to grow G's hair out a bit. This is probably less essential now people have stopped mistaking her for a boy, but it should still look pretty when it's longer, which I suppose is just as important.

In the meantime, the process of the actual hair cutting is usually helped along by giving G a book. Not because I'm being all pushy and starting her young on the Russian classics, but actually because it's as good a way as any of getting her to tilt her head forward, allowing the hairdresser to trim around the back.

The salon has a stack of books for little ones for just this sort of task. So many in fact that they let G keep the one she's reading in the photo, because she seemed so fascinated by it. An eight-page story about Upsy Daisy from the baffling but strangely-captivating-to-toddlers In The Night Garden isn't exactly the complete works of Gogol. But she's got to start somewhere.

Haircut

G had her first-ever haircut today. For a while her hair's been growing at an alarming rate. Where once there was just a bit of fuzz, now there's a big blonde mop, so much so that the easiest way to pick her out of a room full of little ones is to look for her hair, which is much longer and thicker than everyone else's.

So I took her into the Northern Quarter salon where Mrs J was having hers done this afternoon, and sat with her on my knee as the hairdresser gave G a trim. She sat quietly throughout, and looked more puzzled than anything else. G's reward is that she now has a fringe, which also means her hair isn't constantly in her eyes and I don't have to fidget around with hairclips, so it's good news all round.

Later we went along to Oldham's Twestival, a charity fundraising event with various child-friendly entertainment on offer. G was particularly pleased with the balloon which the clown modelled for her, even though to me the pink "flower" looked decidedly more phallic than anything else.

In fact, G liked it so much she refused to let it go, even when she met a new friend, Oldham Athletic mascot Chaddy The Owl:

The mascot seemed very taken with my little girl. But given Oldham's current form, meeting G may be the first thing Chaddy has had to smile about in quite a while.

Bunches

We haven't got round to giving G a proper haircut yet, so it's actually starting to get quite long. Long enough for Mrs J to try her out with bunches, anyway. I think her hair could do with being a bit longer still before G can really carry this look off, but she certainly seems pleased with it. Maybe it's because it makes her look like a girl. If it can have that effect without her being slathered from head to toe in pink sparkly stuff, then so much the better.

It'll Make Your Hair Curl

I took G to my mum's in the north east yesterday to drop off Christmas presents and show my little girl off a bit more. Sadly, her walking still hasn't improved much, so the main thing she ended up showing off was her incredible appetite.

This photo demonstrates G having breakfast. She'd already had her morning Weetabix (other cereals are available) and was agitating for a bit more, so I cut off a bit of toast for her and went back into the kitchen for a few seconds. When I returned I found that G had left the cut-off bits and just gone for the rest of the slice. She finished it all too.

As G chomped her way through the crusts, my mum said: "It'll make your hair curl." Somehow I don't think it's likely though. Her blonde hair is still as straight as can be, but then she's clearly stubborn like that.

Her extra-large breakfast probably contributed to what happened later in day. Back at home and back on the by-election campaign trail, I found myself interviewing Labour leader Ed Miliband for Saddleworth News. I managed it while holding G in one arm with my dictaphone in the other. Mr Miliband, who has a couple of children himself, seemed rather more interested in discussing G than talking about whether he would apologise for the campaign conduct of ex-local MP Phil Woolas, but then I don't suppose you can blame him for that.

As she usually does, G gurgled winningly throughout the interview. But then filled her nappy ten minutes later. She's clearly still an undecided voter.

Blondie

G is blonde. There's really no getting around it. She's a fair-haired Viking baby, albeit with her dad's hazel eyes instead of Norse blue ones. This wouldn't be anything to comment about, except I've got dark hair. And Mrs J has very dark hair. Between you and me, if we still got milk delivered I'd be looking suspiciously in the direction of the milkman.

Apparently this is the sort of thing that babies often grow out of. Just because G is blonde now doesn't mean she won't have thick jet-black locks by the time she's 5 or 10, which will in turn probably be replaced by an alarming shock of bright red hair during her inevitable difficult teenage phase. Best enjoy it while it lasts then. Although sadly she's too young to get any of the blonde jokes I keep telling her.