IT WAS always with us. Sometimes bigger. Sometimes smaller. Occasionally inconspicous but always a cause of contention in the early morning.

The strife would begin in a ritual manner. "Brush your hair". "Can't find the brush." "Here it is." "Not that one. It drags the hair out of my head." Finally, the right brush - is located - the one Granny gave her. It has an old tarnished silver back with soft ancient bristle that sets up a storm of static electricity but is no match for it - the tangle.

When the top of her head has been smoothed but the mass underneath left blissfully untouched, we move into phase two. "Turn your hair over please and brush the underneath." Hefty sigh. A flick of the head and there it was. Everyday. A dark knot of matted hair, nestling beneath the hair line, tucked into the nape of the neck.

On a busy morning, after a few perfunctionary brush strokes and a couple of minor screams, we would abandon the ritual midway and pile into the car. On a "quiet" morning, the knot had to be tackled. "Keep brushing." Scream of anguish from obviously healthy lungs. "That's it. Another few brushes will do it." Moan and sigh worthy of Lady Macbeth.

On bath nights, the tangle once again came into its own. No shampoo or conditioner was a match for its delicately interwoven texture. So, there was the in the bath scene, the after the bath scene and finally the sulk until bedtime.

One night, I picked up a pair of scissors and decided to cut the tangle adrift. Oh, the bliss as a few short hairs remained where once the knot had lurked. But, horror of horrors, the following week, It, or a close relative, had come back to haunt us.

It continued to follow us around. In the playground, on the climbing bars, her hair would fall forward and there it was for all to see. On the way to school, it would balance precariously on her jacket collar, allowing passers by tantalising glimpses of the dark mass. Eventually, we decided it was the tangle or our sanity. So a new campaign opened. Caring, understanding voice: "Don't you think you should get your hair cut shorter and it would be easier to keep?" (Delightful visions of a daughter with a short shiny bob floated before my mind's eye.) "No." "I think you're a little young for such long hair. You obviously aren't able to manage it. You can grow it again when you're older." (The visions had metamorphosed into a barber's razor and a beautiful bald head).

It seemed hopeless. We were going to have to put her up for adoption. We couldn't manage. The tangle had become the metaphor for parental defeat, lack of control, inability to manage . . . when it happened. One evening, a month ago, she and her best friend strolled into the kitchen. "We want to get our hair cut short in a bob like Jane's and let the fringe grow out." Two minutes later and we were in the car on the way to the hairdressers. The shining bob was a reality.

A happy ending, non parents might think. But, we parents know better. There are no are no real endings, just phases. Her energy is now devoted to "growing her fringe out" and ours is concentrated on "brushing your teeth properly . . . or else you'll end up with false ones".