Mirror Mirror
one out of one.
I step out of the shower and I am beautiful.
I wrap a thick black towel around myself, and wring the excess water from my hair into the sink. The liquid drips down the plughole, still tinted with cheap black dye dye. I wipe the mirror clean from condensation. The remnants of today’s makeup is streaked down my face in thick black lines.
I put the cinnamon shampoo back into the cupboard under the sink. I take my toothbrush from the countertop, line the bristles with toothpaste and switch it on, feeling vibrations overpower my mouth. I turn the tap off, I heard that you waste gallons and gallons of water if you leave it on. I have to brush carefully around my lower gum. I have an ulcer.
I take a long look in the mirror. My nail polish is chipped. The towel is slipping to reveal too pale skin. I haven’t got a perfect figure, cushiony layers of fat turn my skeleton into the physique of a woman. And a very motherly woman at that. I am fifteen and I look like I have the padded leftovers of a pregnancy a few years ago. My hips are wide and my breasts are too small to balance them out. I hope there is a bit of growth left in them.
My lips are too narrow to suit my face. My cheekbones are too pronounced, and my nose is too long and not quite dead straight. It flares out at the nostrils. My hair has reverted back to its natural curly state in the humid water and is sticking to my neck. My eyebrows could do with plucking and my eyelashes are stuck together with the gooey mess of watery mascara. My teeth aren’t straight or one hundred percent pearly white, even after vigorous scrubbing. I notice that if the hair by my ear gets much darker or thicker, it will look like sideburns. I frown.
But my name is Catherine, and I live my life to be a Doll.
I take another look in the mirror. This time I don’t see the blemishes, and the imperfections.
I am beautiful, just in my own skin.
And so are you.
I wrap a thick black towel around myself, and wring the excess water from my hair into the sink. The liquid drips down the plughole, still tinted with cheap black dye dye. I wipe the mirror clean from condensation. The remnants of today’s makeup is streaked down my face in thick black lines.
I put the cinnamon shampoo back into the cupboard under the sink. I take my toothbrush from the countertop, line the bristles with toothpaste and switch it on, feeling vibrations overpower my mouth. I turn the tap off, I heard that you waste gallons and gallons of water if you leave it on. I have to brush carefully around my lower gum. I have an ulcer.
I take a long look in the mirror. My nail polish is chipped. The towel is slipping to reveal too pale skin. I haven’t got a perfect figure, cushiony layers of fat turn my skeleton into the physique of a woman. And a very motherly woman at that. I am fifteen and I look like I have the padded leftovers of a pregnancy a few years ago. My hips are wide and my breasts are too small to balance them out. I hope there is a bit of growth left in them.
My lips are too narrow to suit my face. My cheekbones are too pronounced, and my nose is too long and not quite dead straight. It flares out at the nostrils. My hair has reverted back to its natural curly state in the humid water and is sticking to my neck. My eyebrows could do with plucking and my eyelashes are stuck together with the gooey mess of watery mascara. My teeth aren’t straight or one hundred percent pearly white, even after vigorous scrubbing. I notice that if the hair by my ear gets much darker or thicker, it will look like sideburns. I frown.
But my name is Catherine, and I live my life to be a Doll.
I take another look in the mirror. This time I don’t see the blemishes, and the imperfections.
I am beautiful, just in my own skin.
And so are you.