I never thought I would suffer from bun envy.  But then there are a lot of things I never thought would happen, becoming a mother being one of them.

Anyway, here I am, sat in the midst of a gaggle of 7 year old girls my eyes turning green at the sight of their perfectly coiffed hair.  We are waiting for dance class to begin.  I fear that I must have missed the one that included the bun masterclass.

T, with lumps in the crown and clumps hanging down at the back, is the ragged robin compared to these smooth, sleek, elegant swans.  I am convinced that as soon as she attempts her first shuffle-hop the pins will start raining down on the polished floor.  A pirouette will simulate a centrifugal force and pins will start flying across the room suddenly becoming Weapons of Mass Destruction.  It’s the stuff of nightmares.  Remember the ones you have when you realise you are naked in front of your whole class?  This is surely the dance equivalent?

I have been bringing T to dance classes since she was 3 and yet the art of bun creation continues to elude me.  I find myself spending random hours trawling through YouTube for a video that imparts the wisdom that I need.  Over the years I have invested in numerous nets, pins, bun roll thingies and sprays, even cutting up a sock, in order to achieve a perfect bun.

T has suffered the ignominy of a less than perfect bun with the grace expected of a ballerina.  Today, however she was urging me to ask the other mums how they did it.

The humble bun has turned into a symbol of my parenting prowess.  In the eyes of my almost 8 year old, my inability to perfect the bun is an epic parenting fail.