You don't even remember what you were talking about when it happened-something about booze, probably, or the vaguely alarming contents of his pantry. One second Haymitch was slouched sideways on your couch with a bottle hanging from two fingers, muttering half-formed insults about your concerns with his pantry, and the next he was suddenly behind you, all grumbly focus and clumsy determination.

"Hold still," he slurred, already combing his fingers through your hair with shocking gentleness. "You're all knots and chaos. Can't concentrate with it lookin' like a damn rat's nest." You blinked. "What are you—?" "Shh," he whispered, like he was performing surgery. "Makin' you presentable."

And then he braided your hair. Not just some pathetic attempt, either. A real braid. Tight and clean and even, tugged with practiced pressure and tied off with a hair tie-a hair tie, which you're certain you didn't give him and have absolutely no explanation for. Where did he get it? Why does he have it? The questions multiply, unanswered. "There," he said proudly, swaying just slightly as he surveyed his masterpiece. "Now you look like a girl who hasn't been raised by wolves." You stared at him. "How the hell did you learn to do that?"

He shrugged, acting like he hadn't just done something so out of the norm as he flopped back down onto the couch.

"'S just rope made of hair. Braids are braids."