When I’m feeding her, she reaches her hand up to play with my hair, entwining her fingers in it, twirling it, weaving her fingers in and out, smiling up at me with a twinkle in her eyes.

When I’m lying on the floor next to her reading to her, she reaches out and grabs a handful and YANKS on it, giggling, not letting go. When I finally extradite my hair, more than a few strands remain locked in her grasp.