She crawls behind me on the couch, small hands pressed gently against my neck for balance as she perches at my back. "Ten you take out you ponytaowl, Mommy? I wantta bwush you hayar."
I unlock strands from a frayed elastic, letting it fall in a messy sheet, kinked and dull from it's dinner time prison.
"Whoa. You hayar so long! Wike Punzzle!"
"Dat's what I sayd...just wike Punzzle."
She already has the brush and lays it gently upon my scalp, pulling it down through tangles, whispering..."caow-fu-wwee...caow-fu-wwee..."
She plants a hand on my head and curls her face around to look at me. "Do you wike dat, Mommy?"
Back to brushing. "I haff to be caowfuwl."
"That's right. I don't want you to hurt me."
"I wouldn't. I be caofuwl. I be nice. Weal nice. Wike Santa!"