At some point as a parent, you find yourself brushing out the tangles in Toola Roola’s hair. How does it come to this? When did I transform from virulent young buck to polyester hair stylist for Hasbro? It begins with a simple request: “I wanna ponies take a bath wif me!”
Chlorinated bathwater was unkind to Star Song and Toola Roola’s long wavy coiffures. So while Toddler Harbat gave herself a bath, I used a one-inch long hairbrush to tame the unruly pink and purple locks of a grossly anatomically incorrect miniature pony. This reminds me of the time I was studying for the SATs with a friend (on a Saturday!) and my father was playing a Doobie Brothers album at maximum volume downstairs, forcing us to thump on the floor and yell to have the music turned down so we could study. As Laurence Fishburne said with steepled fingers and Heavy Drama, “Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony.” When you have a daughter, you will brush ponies’ hair, will act as a human jungle gym, will have your arm hairs pulled, and will get your face painted. And you will love it.