For two years, any small motor — a beard trimmer, a hair dryer, an electric toothbrush, once, catastrophically, a neighbor’s blender through a wall — produced an immediate, total shutdown.

Not crying.

She would go rigid and silent and put both hands flat on her head, which is a posture I still cannot look at.

The first haircut was fourteen months later and it took three attempts.

We went to the salon twice and just sat, and had a lollipop, and left, and on the third visit she sat in the chair and the woman used scissors and Daisy held my hand the whole time and it was, in every measurable respect, a triumph.

The second thing was the word.