Am I cut out to be a Dance Dad?

For starters, who knew bobby pins came in different sizes?

When we signed Eden up to dancing classes, I thought I knew what I was getting myself into.

My sister was a dance kid growing up — so I was well aware of the hair and make-up and leopard-print leotard requirements for the yearly concerts.

But I took one look at Eden dolled up for her dance photos and started to well up at how grown up she looked.

When it comes to sending her off to the studio with the military-grade slicked bun complete with litres of hair spray and red lips that she can’t stop smacking together in the mirror — and not being able to go and watch her strut her stuff because parents aren’t allowed in — I’m a blubbering mess.

I’m all in on dancing around the house for hours and wearing a hot pink tutu — when I can find one that fits me again — but when it comes to the details, my input is not so crash-hot either.

I think it comes down to this. Enthusiasm and emotional investment is all the way up my alley.

But in the categories of effectiveness and efficiency, I have to defer to my partner Grace.

Back to the supermarket aisle, where I’ve found what I think are the correct bobby pins.

It doesn’t matter if they’re not, because they’re the ones I’m buying.

I start pacing up and down though because I’m on a strict deadline to have these ‘clear hair ties’ back home within the next 10 minutes so Eden can make it to her allotted photo session on time, and there’s simply no sign of them.

Desperately I search the remainder of the aisle in an attempt to see anything that jumps out at me.

Finally I give up — maybe I’ll check the chemist.

But the instinct garnered from my years of experience stacking supermarket shelves suddenly kicks in and, in a Hail Mary play, I start pulling all of the coloured hair ties off of the rack.

And there, nestled at the back, are a packet of translucent hair ties.

Maybe I am cut out for this Dance Dad business after all.

Tyler Maher is the editor of the Shepparton News.