A couple years ago, Justin Podur was left to care for the kids on his own while his wife was away.
The 49-year-old Mr. Podur is, by all accounts, a very competent person. He’s a professor at York University in Toronto, and has written several books on geopolitics and social movements around the world. He’s calm, collected and, as a parent, considers himself to be hands-on.
Still, in those few days with his wife away, Mr. Podur quickly realized there was a glaring hole in his competencies.
His now-eight-year-old daughter is a gymnast, and her hair had to be up and out of her face for practice. It was supposed to be in a braid, but he had no idea where to start. He did his best.
Even now, years later, the look of pity on the coach’s face during drop-off is burned into his memory. “She was like, ‘Dad did your hair today, didn’t he?’” he said, shaking his head.
That experience was what brought Mr. Podur to a west-end Toronto brewery one evening last month, sitting at a table with a set of pink hair tools neatly laid out in front of him. This was Braids and Brews, a workshop where dads learn the basics of how to style their daughter’s hair.
Over the past year, such events – often held in traditionally “masculine” spaces such as pubs and breweries – have taken off in popularity around the world. Similar events have popped up in Vancouver, Winnipeg and Ottawa. And this one, organized by local hairstylist and educator Amanda McCrea, is just one of several in the Toronto area.
It’s the consequence of millennial and Gen X dads taking on an increased share of the work of child care. In their pursuit of becoming more “hands-on” parents, many of these dads are finding themselves having to learn new and sometimes surprising skills – oftentimes subverting traditional gender norms and expectations along the way.
Amanda McCrea, pro hair stylist and founder of Braids and Brews, is one of several people running these events in Toronto.
Mr. Podur was one of a small group taking the course that evening. There were finance dads wearing backward baseball caps, sensible dads in Under Armour gear and fashion dads with chunky sneakers and full-sleeve tattoos. Each of them had a mannequin head with a long mane of rainbow-coloured hair in front of them as they watched Ms. McCrea begin her lesson.
She started with a series of questions.
“Has anyone done a ponytail before?” A few of the men nodded.
“Has anyone done pigtails?” A few more nods.
“Has anyone tried braids?” The room was quiet. From his seat, Mr. Podur remained silent.
One hand finally shot up. It was Mark Donatelli, a 39-year-old dad who works in finance.
“I’ve dabbled,” he said.
The others looked on, impressed.
Mr. Donatelli hesitated, then reconsidered. “One dabble.”
Fathers Mark Donatelli, 39, left, and Scott Mahn, 39, are subverting the traditional gender norm of who does their daughter’s hair.Gabriel Hutchinson/The Globe and Mail
Ms. McCrea began running these workshops a few months ago. She’d begun to realize how much of the morning routine was left to her, between waking up her two daughters, getting them fed, dressed and out the door each day. She decided she could off-load more of it to her husband.
“That was the big one,” she said. “Stepping back and letting him do it. And empowering him.” She wanted to pass that empowerment on to other families.
Ronak Gandhi, a dad who attended the class that evening, saw it as an opportunity to learn a skill that would allow him to bond with his daughter. She turns five in September.
“She’s very girly. She’s like, ‘I want to be a princess,’” he said. She loves makeup, dresses and painting his nails. “So this is a way for her and I to build a stronger relationship and connection.”
The 38-year-old Mr. Gandhi said the class is a signal of the generational shift he sees among his fellow millennial dads who want to be more hands-on, more present and ready to take on traditionally “feminine” sides of caregiving.
Ronak Gandhi, 38, is hoping this will bond him and his daughter even more, while also reclaiming the meaning of masculinity.
Growing up, he saw his own dad – an immigrant from India – having to adhere to much stricter gender roles. “Different time, different culture,” he said.
Still, he acknowledged that masculinity today has its own challenges.
Earlier this year, a similar hairstyling workshop in the U.K., called “Pints and Ponytails,” drew the attention of social media influencer Andrew Tate, a self-proclaimed misogynist. The podcaster publicly derided the dads as “cucks.” (The U.K. organizers, in response, cheekily renamed their club Cucks and Ponytails).
As a teacher, Mr. Gandhi said he often hears such messages parroted by the tween and teen boys at school. So for him, part of the interest in attending that night’s workshop was to reclaim the concept of masculinity and to reject the “toxic” ideas that have gained so much prominence.
Alleviate painful brushing, the dads were taught, by holding the hair tightly above where the brush is used to detangle.
“As a guy who has a daughter, I need to show her that not all guys are like that,” he said.
“This is my little piece, I guess, of fighting back.”
Ms. McCrea’s lesson that day began with the basics. She taught the men how to brush the mannequin’s hair, and to remove tangles without pain. After that, she had them practise on a moving target – mimicking the challenge that every parent faces when their child begins squirming, bouncing and trying to get away.
As Mr. Podur worked on the mannequin’s hair, another dad, Ernesto Barahona, began slowly bobbing it up and down in front of him. “Sorry man,” Mr. Barahona said, as he waved the head around, forcing Mr. Podur to grit his teeth and chase it around with his comb.
Beside them, Rhys Mohun said he’d been sent with a long list of requests from his daughters: French braids. Half braids. He paused – what was the name of the one that’s inverted?
Dutch braids, someone called out.
“Dutch braids. Right. I don’t understand half of it,” he said. “I thought there was only one type of braid. But I’ve learned there are all sorts of braids.”
From the front, Ms. McCrea called out the next step. It was time for the dads to divide the hair not only into vertical sections, but horizontal ones, too.
There were groans from across the room. “Whoa,” one of the guys muttered. “Whoaaaa.”
“This is level one?” asked Mr. Donatelli.
But beside him, Mr. Mohun rallied the group. He pumped his fist in the air and clapped his hands together.
“Let’s go, fellas,” he called out. “We got this.”
By the end of the evening, all of the men had managed – some more shakily than others – to pull off basic braids. As they sat back in their chairs, they appraised one another’s work, slapping each other’s backs and taking photos with their phones.
“I have an appreciation now for what my wife has been doing all these years,” said Mr. Gandhi, leaning back to snap a pic. “It’s a challenge.”
Next to him, Mr. Podur looked spent. He was sitting backward in his chair, Dangerous Minds style – “so if I’m tired I can lean my chin on this rest here” – and the station in front of him was a mess.
His combs were askew, the brushes turned this way and that. Hair ties littered the table in front of him. A few tufts of blue mannequin hair lay on the ground beside his feet.
“Pure chaos,” he said, shaking his head.
Still, in front of him on his mannequin was a single, neat braid. He’d made a few small mistakes. It wasn’t perfect. But it was a massive improvement over what he’d done before.
“It’s good,” he said. “I’m already better.”