Not Quite So Perfect

brush hairMy mom was the most perfect person I ever met, and she held up a high standard that she expected others to meet. Her sisters nicknamed her “Perfect Pat”, and my Aunt Kitty (Mom’s younger sister) and I have often talked about how hard it was growing up under her shadow of perfection.

This past week, at my Uncle Layne’s funeral, a subject of conversation came up which happened to highlight one of Mom’s few flaws. That perfect mother of mine would become a veritable monster anytime she had a hairbrush in her hand! She didn’t know how to gently comb out tangles. She would rip that brush through your hair so hard that you expected to see large chunks of hair, scalp attached, hanging from the brush. If you moved or squirmed at all, she would whack you over the head with the brush. To this day, I don’t care for anyone to mess with my hair because of the trauma I experienced as a child. I’m sure Kitty and my cousins Dottie, Brenda, and Benita can all attest to the veracity of my claims.

My younger cousins couldn’t believe that Aunt Pat was ever so vicious, and it made for an interlude of laughter amidst a somber occasion. As for me, it’s helpful to remember that even Mom had a flaw or two, so maybe I shouldn’t always be quite so hard on myself.

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