Brushing

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!"

"Like Rapunzel?"

"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?"

"Yep."

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!"