Every summer, I seem to reach my limit of hearing my little ones whine and cry when I brush their hair. It happened with Kayla when she was little. Maddie too. And now Allison has fallen victim to my scissors. There is something about the hot, stickiness of summer that just makes me a wee bit less patient and a whole lot more practical when it comes to hair!
“Almost perfect… but not quite.” Those were the words of Mary Hume At her seventh birthday party, Looking ‘round the ribboned room. “This tablecloth is pink not white— Almost perfect…but not quite.” “Almost perfect…but not quite.” Those were the words of grown-up Mary Talking about her handsome beau, The one she wasn’t gonna marry. “Squeezes me a bit too tight— Almost perfect…but not quite.” “Almost perfect…but not quite.” Those were the words of ol’ Miss Hume. Teaching in the seventh grade, Grading papers in the gloom Late at night up in her room. “They never cross their t’s just right— Almost perfect…but not quite.” Ninety-eight the day she died Complainin’ bout the spotless floor. People shook their heads and sighed, “Guess that she’ll like heaven more.” Up went her soul on feathered wings, Out the door, up out of sight. Another voice from heaven came— “Almost...
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