Back in college, my friends and I didn't say "I love you." Instead, we held one another's hair back when we vomited. It was our "As you wish." My friends never needed to doubt my love for them because with an extra hair band always on my wrist for such a drunken occasion, I was the farm boy to their Buttercup. Ready to fetch them that pitcher, as they were for me.

If a true measurement of love can be placed on one's readiness to hold back the hair of a puking loved one, then what, I ask you, does it say that my nearly 1-month-old daughter employs the exact opposite by exclusively vomiting on my hair?

No one else has been brandished by her upchuck. Despite being passed around from friend to friend endlessly over the past month, I am the only person who needs to try to duck for cover. If she were a sea gull, I'd be the bald head on the beach: Target identified. I'd like to think that this predilection to only vomit on me is her way of marking her territory. I like to pretend she chooses me because she loves me best, but even I can't support that notion for long — especially when it comes to the hair.

Why, oh, why must she always vomit on the hair? Not my shoulder or chest or lap. Specifically and explicitly the hair. For a moment, I thought she might know something I didn't — a little retained instinctual knowledge from the womb. Maybe the acid in vomit actually cures split ends, eliminates premature gray hairs and increases your hair growth by 2 inches each month. Perhaps my daughter was doing me a favor! But after an exhaustive 60-second Google search, nothing about the benefits of having puke in your hair popped up.

Message received, little one.

When my son was born, he quickly acquired the pet name "Sweet Angel." My daughter's pet name is "Evil Genius." It began in the hospital before her birth. My husband was by my side all day, but after 11 hours of labor, I was still only 5 centimeters. The doctor and nurses said the baby was still hours away from crowning, and when my husband expressed a desire to tuck our toddler into bed for the night, they said it was a good idea and assured us that nothing exciting would happen during his absence.

We live 15 minutes from the hospital. My husband had been home for just 20 minutes when he got a text from me saying, "Come back." I was fully dilated. A nurse asked me whether I wanted to push or try to wait for my husband's return. I asked to wait and, in that moment, coined the name "Evil Genius" — a name my daughter would continue to live up to. For example, she came out so fast that the doctor almost didn't catch her. Evil genius. In her first photo, as the doctor held her up for us to see, she gave such a contemptuous death glare that any teenager would be green with jealousy. Evil genius. She raises her left eyebrow in judgment every time she meets a new person. She only cries at night when it's time for me to sleep. She only vomits on me and only vomits when my hair is down to create the most collateral damage. Evil genius, evil genius, evil genius.

Actions speak louder than words. It's why holding back your belligerent friend's hair as she unleashes both verbal and actual vomit is such an act of love. We do it despite the friend's poor behavior. We do it despite the high odds that she won't remember our act of love.

My daughter's pet name is meant to be silly. Obviously, I know she is a baby and has no control or understanding of her actions. But I do. My actions, unlike hers, will always speak loudly. So with every evil glare I get, I kiss her angry face all the more. With every night cry, I cuddle her closer. And with every hair strand coated in vomit, I step into the shower and think about how someday I'll tell her I can't afford her college tuition because I spent it all on shampoo.

Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. To find out more about Katiedid Langrock and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.