Prior to school the girls would beg for French braids
My comb slid carefully through their golden locks
Dividing three separate strands afraid
to keep straight and even with twists and turns to lock

the braid neatly in place. Holly glanced at the back
of her hair through the gilded mirror, smiled and bounced
through her day. Heather, on the hand, scrutinized 
carefully the braid in the mirror and 9 times out of 10

would undo my handiwork, stating it wasn’t perfect.
Angry since I wasted my time but later
felt remorse for her cause life for her
is confused to rigid lines of perfection.

Rigid lines that filled me with mother blunder
Perfection steals joy from her being.