The night before the hair debacle, 11yo and I were working on her science project. We'd cleared out the living room and moved the long-leaf kitchen table into the living room for a workspace. 11yo is making a trebuchet (as seen in LOTR, it's a weight-activated catapult). She had some lumber I'd cut, a hammer and some nails. I was in the kitchen making dinner and I heard her tapping away.
clankclankclankityclank
I went into the living room and found her tapping on the nails. Like a girl. Immediately all the scorn I'd seen heaped on every woman in every shop and every set leapt into my mind. Like a girl. I wasn't having it.
There are certain rules to casa ulitave. Thou Shalt Not Cook Meat in Casa Ulitave. Thou Shalt Not Listen to Any Bitch-Ass Axl Rose in Casa Ulitave. and Thou Shalt Not Hammer Like a Girl.
I took the hammer from her. I'd lent her my hammer, my pride and joy, my 20oz framing hammer. Saddam fears my hammer. I took it and said, "Look, you have to hit the nail like you mean it." I lit that nail up BAM.
"Dad."
"You can't be afraid of the hammer. Being afraid is how you have accidents." BAM.
"Okay. Dad..."
BAM. "Here, take it. Now hit that nail. No not like that, like this." I took the hammer back.
BAM
"Dad?"
"You've got to..."
BAM
"...hit the nail..."
BAM
"...like you mean..."
"Dad?"
BAM
"business."
WHAM BAM
"Dad?"
"What?"
"Can I pull the nail out of the table now?"
I'd sunk the nail into the table. 11yo sank 4 more nails into the table later that night, which is her way of making a joke.