— Tomorrow it’s going to rain for sure.

— Really? How do you know?

— Because my hair hurts.

— That’s nonsense — hair doesn’t hurt. Ouch! Are you crazy? Why did you yank my hair?

— Well, does it hurt or not?

— Yes, it does! But there was no need to be so rough!

— Do you want me to comb it?

— Nooo... thanks. I don't think my hair is in the mood to appreciate your delicacy today — or ever.

— Fancy a cushion fight?

— Nope.

— A battleship game?

— No. Are you bored?

— Me?

— Is there anyone else in the room?

— I don't know. Maybe there are some ill spirits watching us...

— Stop it. I know what you're trying to do.

— I'm not trying to do anything. I'm just... telling a plausible truth. Mwahaha!

— Stop it! You're trying to scare me!

— Not at all. I can feel them. I can almost touch one...

— You're making it up!

— No, I'm not. There's one right behind you. Bwahahaha!

— Okay, you win. You can comb my hair. But stop scaring me.

— You won't need to say it twice. Pass me/Hand me your comb.

— Has anyone ever told you your manipulative skills/abilities are a bit rude?

— Constantly, but usually too late, just like you.

— You're a sociopathic hair stylist.

— I love you too, but keep talking and I’ll give you bangs.