With a practice ease, she snips a lock of hair, catching the perfectly curled ringlet.
Methodically, she continues the snipping, mouth firmly set in concentration.
The weight begins to lessen, the handful of curls overflowing and dropping to the ground in heaps.
By the end, her hair is a curled poof above her shoulders. Piles of dying hair surrounds her perch on the floor.
The door creaks open, followed by a gasp. "Honey, what have you done to your perfect hair?"
Meeting her mother's gaze from the floor length mirror, the girl does not say word.
Her mother drops to the floor, trying to scoop the fallen strands into a cohesive pile.
The girl looks away from her frantic mother, examining her own reflection.
The set in her jaw. The perpetual glare. The twist of her lips. The dark steel in her eye.
Her mother wouldn't understand. For her, perfection is everything.
But for the girl, perfection was a confining facade.
She was destined for imperfection.