Me, Grace and Herr Drosselmeyer

I’m in a room brimming with estrogen. The air smells like Aqua Net, makeup and rented tutus. Quick flashes of pink, sequins and tulle buzz in my peripheral vision. Tiny, sparkling girls run in all directions.

I feel like an interloper in this frenzied beehive of femininity. Can daddy prep his little girl to dance in “The Nutcracker” all by himself?

I’m shaking a huge can of hair spray. “Grace, look at me,” I say. “I just need to flatten your hair down.”

“Maybe a mommy can do it,” she says, eyeing the women in the room.

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