Mirror of Imperfections

I know you’ve done it, don’t worry I have too. Windows, shiny screens, sometimes even polished silverware allow you to catch a good glimpse of yourself. Is my hair alright, makeup good, anything in my nose or, God forbid, teeth? Without anyone noticing I fix a loose strand of hair and return to what I was doing, a sense of reassurement fills my heart knowing that my face hasn’t suddenly morphed into something unrecognisable since the time I last checked. Wait but that’s just a little taste. Now for the main course, mirrors. Smooth, shiny, glistening, reflecting the glorious image of nothing more important than me - my face, hair, body, clothes, shoes. It meticulously captures each and every single detail. The full size mirror nailed into the Haines hall allows me to scrutinize my clothes and my entire body. The extra wide full mirror slanting outside the bathroom allows me to catch a side view as you walk into the bathroom. The built in mirror above the sink elongates itself for a upper body view. The small desk mirror allows me to focus on nothing but my face, if I’m feeling really adventurous, flip it and I’m lost in a world where each eyelash looks like a tree branch, each pore could be the grand canyon, the little peach fuzz on my face could be a carpet, my teeth… let's stop there. My eyes are accustomed to seek out those imperfections. As I gaze at my reflection and my eyes are drawn to the blemishes, the flaws, everything that I deem as not beautiful.

I stare with my heart’s content, the imperfection burning into my mind with each passing moment. Disappointment, anger, and sometimes even disgust fill my mind as I walk away. That little red spot on my face, with each passing moment it grows bigger, darker and more ominous in my mind. It’s probably covering half my cheek I stop at the bathroom on my way to class. It’s no bigger than a freckle. The shirt that was a little tight, I must look bad, I wrap my sweater a little tighter. My straight black hair, black eyes, and Asian features must have no place in this white town.

I walk a little faster. We all know the story of Narcissus the Greek mythological character who looked into water and fell in love with his own reflection. Unable to leave the beauty of his reflection, Narcissus lost the will to live and stared at himself until he died. He must a been a really really good looking man.

My story however, goes a little more like this: I looked into mirrors and saw aspects of myself that I didn’t like, the girl looking back at me pointed out my imperfections, and more and more the imperfections became all I saw, eventually each time I looked into the mirror, I saw the framed picture of my imperfections daunting me. I looked for the straight noses, blue eyes, and blond hair, but saw nothing but the opposite. I looked for the beauty that was acclaimed around me and couldn’t find it, unable to release these imperfections, I eventually got lost.

It came. Swiftly, subtly, gently, not even making a sound. I felt no pain, no anticipation, it took me by surprise and lay itself on my cheek. It was the fourth day of not looking into mirrors, as I opened my eyes and lay in the warm embrace of my blanket, I reached towards my face to brush away my hair and upon the contact between my cheek and my fingertips, simultaneously my fingers felt the bump and my cheek cried out a pang of pain. Yes, a pimple. Now this was no small blemish, this was the kind of pimple that catches anyone and everyone’s attention, the large spot that shone like the actor in the spotlight in a tragedy called my face, the kind of misfortune that you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy.

“Are you sure it’s covered up?” I find myself sitting in front of Nikole for a few extra minutes this morning. “I know it’s horrible, big, ugly, red” The more I thought about my blemish the worse it manifested in my mind, evolving from a tiny red dot to a destructive explosive volcano. As I looked at Nikole’s unamused expression, and I realized the exaggeration and dramatization of my words. My mind has subconsciously leapt for the worst possible scenario, as usual my mind had assumed the worst case possible. I walk around school with looking down at my feet, my hair slightly covering just a little too much of my cheek. Not being able to check whether this pimple has ballooned to cover half of my face sends waves of discontent through my body. Everyone must be staring at this spot, it’s all they notice, it’s all they see, it’s all they think about. Not knowing whether my appearance has achieved my ideal image of me digs at my heart. It’s all they see, it’s all they see, it’s all they see. But who? Who’s looking at me, who’s worrying about my face, who is thinking about my imperfections. This thought almost stops me in my steps. Who is looking at me?

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I peered curiously into the mirror, unprepared for whether it welcomed me with the warm smile of that confidant Asian girl, or whether I would see nothing but my flaws and imperfections filling up the whole frame. I had once lost myself in my own reflection. I couldn’t tell if the looking glass had presented me with an image of reality or if it presented me with magnified distortions of my own vulnerabilities.

As I climb up the creaking steps to the third floor of Haines, the soft glow of the evening sun shines through the window and hits me in the face as I make it up the final step. The school day is over, sports are done, dinner was mediocre, and I am standing in front of the mirror at the top of the steps. And I saw this girl, a hint of a smile in the corners of her plump red lips, her cheeks still rosy and pink from playing tennis, I saw the Chopin Nocturne she just learnt that filled her heart with pangs of sorrow and love, I saw the laughter from happy times with her friends echo, I saw the warmth she cherished with her family. And where was that critical over obsessive girl? Well I left her framed in a world of misconceived beauty, hanging there among the flowery wall paper, quieted in the murmurs of her own judgement.