The Mirror

She would stand for hours before the mirror. She would place one foot in front of the other, turn her body to the left, turn her body to the right, move in, move back, then turn to shuffle her feet again. It was always easy to tell when she liked when she saw. She would smile, gesture at herself with her hand in a fanning motion, and make approving sounds. She never did, but if she looked into the mirror at my reflection, she would have seen the shame on my face.

I don’t believe it was teenage angst, because the shame was not reserved for my mother alone. I cringed whenever my friends stared into the mirror too—to apply make-up, or mould their fringe into a perfect beach wave. It always amazed me just how long they could do that—lean forward and glare at every inch of their face. They would poke a stick under their eyes, dab powder on their cheeks, lean back and survey, wipe it all off and start again.

Maybe in this way I grew up being impatient, but I cannot stand watching anyone looking at themselves. Even daily routines frustrate me. People spend an inordinate amount of time looking into the mirror each morning: wrestle down the hair, wash the detritus from their eyes, adjust the tie around their neck, or clear their chin of midnight stubble. No matter how you rationalise, the mirror tells you, this, this look there, is not presentable. Do this, fix that. And the grander the purpose, the more ridiculous it seems. The man in a new suit going about his daily business acquires an air of arrogance as soon as he stops to admire himself in the mirror. The bride is no longer a woman who finds happiness the moment she is mesmerised by the reflection of herself in a fitted tea lace gown—she becomes an ego inflated: the turn of her head to the left says “I am beautiful,” and the turn to the right says: “Everyone look at me.” Self-importance in every peek, conceit in every glance. There is no escaping the vanity embedded in a painted glass.