She stares at me, curious. Her fine, mousy-brown hair a frizzy halo about her round face. Some of those spots are freckles, others are red and sore from where she’s been squeezing pimples. When she smiles, her eyes crinkle at the corners. Her teeth are mostly straight, except for the big canine on the left which stands out crooked and ruins the whole effect.
No, she isn’t beautiful, not in a traditional way.
I stare back, confused. Is this really how people see me? She looks nothing like the girl I imagine - slim and sexy, with an infectious smile and great hair.
“I don’t like you,” I say to the mirror girl.
Her eyes narrow, throwing the words back at me even as I say them.
“Why can’t you be pretty?” I murmur.
A dark part of me wants to erase her; replace her with someone else. For a moment I understand how the evil Queen felt.
Mirror, mirror, lie to me please.
Nothing changes. Nothing ever will. She’s me and I’m her.
I reach out, our fingers separated by nothing more than a thin sliver of glass. Is it compassion or sadness in her big blue eyes as I whisper, “I’m such a hypocrite, aren’t I?”
She nods, knowing exactly what I mean. There’s so much love in my life, crazy, generous, wonderful people I'm honoured to call friends and family. Who have I ever disowned for failing to be pretty?
No-one, of course. What a stupid question. I don’t care what they look like.
“Then why am I so mean to you?”
The corners of her mouth twitch up; the beginnings of a knowing smile. Perhaps I’ll never be a movie star or a celebrity, but I could strike ‘symmetrical teeth’ and ‘silky locks’ off the list of prerequisites to loving and accepting myself.
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