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.
What an interesting poem, Linda. Trying to be perfect with hair is such an ingenious way to talk about this. Thanks!
Little girls and mothers and nothing is ever perfection. I enjoyed this poem quite a bit.
“mother blunder” — yes. Tender, true poem.
Great poem. That ending hits strong!
Sisters, but so different, and you show us through the medium of hair! Very clever! The perfectionist burdens herself and you – “mother blunder” is so well put!
The symbolic division of the three separate strands nicely foreshadows the defining of individuality. The last two lines are so full of emotion it hurts!
All moms reflect on their “mother blunders”! I know I do—when I mention them to my kids, they don’t remember, but have mother blunders I never knew presented bad memories or issues?! Yikes What an interesting Poem—lots of layers.
And, my daughter was so tender headed—I was afraid to comb her hair. I brought her to the local mall hair salon and paid to have her hair French braided—happy it lasted a week or more!