"Don't touch the hair"

Who has the the unequivocal right to say this?
If you can wash your, or your child's hair and then pull a comb through it – you don't.
If you are a man with short hair that has been gelled into baked Alaska peaks with an up-standing, side-waving flick at the front – you don't.
Who does? Me.
When we adopted our first child, a boy, I took cognizance of two things, ethnic hair is different and I know nothing about it except 'Black is Beautiful'.
Stand in front of the shelves of ethnic hair products in the shop and ask yourself one question: What is your intention? Stimulate root growth, moisturize the scalp, moisturize the hair, relax, detangle, soften, shine, and if so, with what? Olive oil? Avocado? Coconut? Mayonnaise? (really) ... "I don't know," I said loud and petulantly (why aren't these products white folk friendly?) I just want to be able to comb it without him screaming and wailing.
The rational answer is to ask someone. For this you have to prepare yourself mentally, practice your pranayama and move into a deep state of calm and serenity ... in Pick 'n Pay.
Once said state is achieved you look around for a friendly face ... then you look around for a less rushed-looking face ... then you ask the nearest person.
The first look that crosses your adviser's face is disbelief, not that you have a black child, but that you may not know what black actually is. Thinking this can't possibly be the case the next expression that crosses said face is suspicion, as though I am asking her to let me in on her hundred-year-old matriarchal chakalaka recipe.
Johnson & Johnson's baby shampoo and detangle spray was what I needed and an Africa comb.
What my boy has is a No. 1 cut.
Ah! But what about the girl? Advise here is freely dispensed as though one does not concern oneself with the minutiae of boy's hair but the importance of girl's hair cannot be overstated and you clearly know nothing.
NEVER CUT IT! LEAVE IT TO GROW!
If you cut there will be no braids, no cornrows, no cute twists and little dreads.
For this hair must be washed and combed so my angel doesn't look like a Mau Mau who has spent two years in the Aberdares. So back to that vast intimidating shelf.
Night one: Wash, rinse and massage in conditioner, but do not rinse. Wrap hair in scarf as sponge-wet and to prevent conditioner coating bedding.
Night two: Rinse and massage in moisturizer then comb.
I have been blessed with a little girl with the thickest, curliest, most beautiful mat of hair that takes a full hour to comb through. I then wrap her head in a scarf and the next morning, GORGEOUS! A perfect sphere of soft, glistening, thick pile adorns her head.
I'm showing off, gloating, boasting, "Look what I've done!" "What I've accomplished!" Then I remember she was involved too and add, "What a clever girl, you were so good, look how beautiful you are."
No one may touch THE hair, no one.
Three days later I'm exasperated, she has been recalled to the Aberdares.

Mom: A quick reaction unit

In a mad attempt to finish my work before Christmas I have taken a moment to assess the detritus on my desk. Aside from the requisite PC screen, tower, scanner, printer, keyboard, UPS and speakers, I have:

• 1 x Sony Z1 movie camera to play interview footage for research.
• 2 x useless Comrades Marathon running magazines. To be returned (with thanks).
• A sheaf of emails relating to the status of the para training of the Rhodesian African Rifles.
• 3 x tea cups – sadly empty.
• 12 x tapes, not in order, with hours of interview footage for research purposes, now all in the incorrect boxes thus I now have no clue what's on which tape.
• 1 x notebook including notes on everything from the beginnings of the Police Anti-Terrorist Unit to the contact details of all the butcheries in town.
• Application forms to register an NGO.
• Said NGOs working constitution.
• 12 x books, all large format on the Rhodesian bush war, ranging from books on individual regiments to memoirs to complete histories.
• Empty toilet rolls to make 'binoculars' for the game reserve camping holiday we have planned.
• 2 x A2 sheets of paper with notes, sketches and other information pertaining to the book I am writing.

... or trying to write.

As I zoom out the playroom floor has mysteriously disappeared in a cornucopia of building blocks, Christmas food parcels, tea sets, musical instruments, crayons, puzzle piece, play dough ... and this to the ever-increasing wailing of two young children fighting over a wind-up dog, the kind you put on a pencil: the head on the front and the tail at the back, then you wind it up and it walks. They don't have a pencil, just a head and a tail.

As I get my facts straight about the first Fire Force jump from Buffalo Range by the Rhodesian SAS on 22 September 1976 (?) the wailing has turned into a full-blown fight and they are at my chair, each brandishing half a dog.

Any parenting book will tell you that by getting cross and shouting you are merely adding another tantrum to the mix, well sod that, a short, sharp few word, swift discipline, each to their own naughty corner and now ... the sweet sounds of a happy game in progress down the passage.
... and me? Back to Fire Force: a complete vertical envelopment of the enemy, encircle it entirely and, very quickly with highly-trained, highly-motivated and highly-disciplined troops ... MOM!

The Little Red Number

You're pushing 40, you've known your husband almost half your life, you have two children, a bond and an SUV. What you no longer have is a sexy wardrobe; it's practical, sensible, user friendly and comes in a variety of shades that just about conceal most food types and bodily fluids.
Of course this isn't true for all, I gawk at 'Paris Fashion Week Mom' every morning I drop my daughter at playgroup. But I'm a hands-on, outdoorsy mom and anything tight, short, low-cut, lacy or racy no longer occupies space on a hanger.
In my twenties I could open my cupboard and do anything from a modern Scarlett O'Hara to Scarlett Johansson (without the lips). So when your tenth wedding anniversary comes up and there is literally nothing I can buy my husband that is romantic, pricey and comes in a box I'm forced to think out of that proverbial box.
Ha! I will be the gift. I will be Julia Roberts sitting at the bar counter somewhat nervous but oozing sexy in that racy, lacy, low-cut, short, heeled little number. But I'll see her and raise her one, mine will be RED. Yes, red; the colour of love, the colour of passion, the colour my husband has never seen me in, the colour I don't have.
I live in a small town – news travels fast – so I ask two girlfriends for help, both refer me to 'Little Miss Perfect'. Groan and horror. The mom that makes all other moms feel totally inadequate; the one who remembers to put a jersey in her child's bag, remembers which days are swimming days, coin laying days, cancer sprayathon days, funny hat days and every other possible day schools can come up with to make most moms spin. But not this one; she's composed, a hint of makeup, her hair is clean and blow dried, she works full time and I bet has that Stepford Wife gourmet meal ready in the evening as she tenderly kisses her successful husband hello, and no doubt is a ... in the bedroom. Her kids eat their vegetables without threats of imminent extermination and colour in the lines.
We couldn't be more different so we acknowledge each other from a distance, greet when we must but are pleasant at close quarters, as I said, it's a small town. Turns out she's the only one in this small town who actually may just have the Little Red Number I'm looking for.
Why don't I just buy one? For all the reasons above.
We have never celebrated our anniversary, we seldom even remember it. But this is a round number and I just know he's bought me something romantic and pricey that comes in a box. So I'm determined and will not be swayed. (Fortunately we don't have to meet at the Wimpy, there is a larger town a little distance away.)
He'll receive a mysterious note to meet me at (tbc) and there I'll be, waiting, gorgeous, more beautiful that the day he first saw me .. a full night's sleep and slightly later than 5am start permitting.