Sometimes, she cried.
« Mama, you’re pulling too hard, » she would whimper.
« I know, baby. I’m trying to be gentle, » I would say, holding the bottom of a curl so it would not tug at her scalp.
Even on the worst mornings, when the brush practically got stuck, she never once asked to cut it short.
The hair was her thing, her quiet little pride.
That morning, she padded into the kitchen in her unicorn pajamas, holding her stuffed rabbit by one ear.
« Mama, can I do a craft in my room? » she asked.
« What kind of craft, sweetheart? »
« Paper, glitter, and maybe stickers. »
I smiled into my coffee.
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