Every night before bed, Chloe invites me into her room to comb my hair.

 
It’s not necessarily the pleasant salon experience one might expect from between a set of twin beds as a five year old uses random toys to stroke your scalp, but I’ll take it.

 
Last night she said, “Welcome to my hair place, what’s your name?”

 
I thought for a moment, drew a blank and said, “Hello, I’m Liz.”

 
Chloe explained I could have any name in the world except Liz so I quickly said, “Sorry, call me Brenda.”

 
“Okay Brenda, sit down.” I instantly regretted my decision to go with Brenda.

 
“I’m going to comb your hair all the way sideways, Brenda.”

 
“Can I change my name?”

 
“No.”

 
Chloe sensed both the sideways combing with two twisted pipe cleaners and the name Brenda was wearing on me but insisted I stay because combing my hair was the only thing that would put her to sleep and the bleeding wasn’t enough to warrant any fainting.

 
When I finally tucked her into bed, Brenda’s hair looking the most sideways it ever has, I whispered to her, “You’re my favourite five year old in the whole world.”

 
She smiled and said, “I wish I had been birthed at my friend’s house. She has a tweety bird.”