Page 46 of Imperfect Arrangement
I focus on Quill’s head, trying to ignore the fact that Willow is seated across the room in the cushioned armchair, leaning forward, studying my every move.
The YouTuber guides me through each step as I part my daughter’s hair. After six months, I’ve learned that hair braiding, like cooking, isn’t something you can wing. If you try to do so, well, the results aren’t exactly desirable. I finish untangling the last strand and start sectioning the hair.
“Aren’t you going to explain what you’re doing?” Willow asks, genuinely curious.
I glance up, eyebrows raised. “I said you could watch. I didn’t say I was teaching.”
Her lips twitch, eyes crinkling with amusement. “How will I learn if you don’t explain it?”
“You watch the tutorial,” I deadpan, hoping that’ll end it.
But of course not.
Willow drags her chair closer, and now she’s right beside me, turning this into a three-person hair-braiding party.
Quill, clearly loving every second, beams up at her. “I’ll start the video from the beginning!”
Great. I close my eyes, trying to focus, but the faint scent of Willow’s shampoo wafts over. My mind instantly conjures a color—tangerine. A fiery citrus scent that seeps into my thoughts like honey. I picture her rinsing her hair, soap suds cascading down her back…
I snap my eyes open, trying to shake off the completely inappropriate thought. Before I can fully recover, Quill taps my leg.
“Dad, you’re behind.”
“Oh, so he’s usually not zoning out every few seconds? I thought maybe since he’sold, he might need more time.” Willow’s face flushes as she tries to hold back her laughter. Her eyes don’t meet mine as she focuses solely on Quill, who laughs, her shoulders shaking hard.
“Dad, Willow called you old.” Quill grins up at me.
“I heard.” I shoot Willow a mock stink eye when she finally looks at me, but it only makes her smile wider.
Despite my best effort, I fumble, a lot. What should have been a five-minute job is dragging out, mistake after mistake piling up.
As I’m finally finishing the braid and securing the last strand, the elastic snaps. Of course it does. Before I can get up to grab another one, Willow jumps out of her chair. “I’ve got this. What do you need?”
I must look like a complete disaster—broken hair tie hanging from my mouth, hands tangled in my daughter’s hair. But Willow’s face is serious and her expression right now is genuinely sincere.
“Top drawer.” I nod toward the dresser. “Green hair tie, please.”
Without missing a beat, she heads for the drawer.
Once I’ve secured the braid, I swing it over Quill’s shoulder, waiting for her verdict.
She flashes me a toothy grin and nods. “Thanks, Dad.”
Finally, the hair-braiding marathon is over and I’m about to make my quick exit when Quill turns to Willow, her eyes sparkling. “Your turn now.”
“What?” Willow and I both blurt out at the exact same time.
“Quill,” I say in my serious dad voice, the one reserved for those rare occasions when I actually have to deny her something. But my daughter looks up at me with that determined little face of hers, the one that says she’s not backing down.
“Dad, Willow just said she doesn’t like her hair. And if she knew how to braid it, she would. She needs your help. Didn’t you say we should always help someone who asks for it?”
This is the part they don’t warn you about in parenting books—how your own well-meaning advice can boomerang right back at you in the most unexpected ways.
“I’m sure Willow has better things to do with her Saturday morning than get her hair braided,” I say, hoping my tone conveys that not everyone views French braids as the highlight of their weekend.
But Quill’s not budging. She turns to Willow and tugs on her hand. I expect my fiery-haired houseguest to politely decline. Instead, she surprises me by plopping down right in front of me, glancing back over her shoulder with a hesitant smile.
“I’ve never had braids before.” Her voice is softer than I expected. “My mom always kept her hair short, and mine as well, until I was old enough to handle it myself.”
