Creative Non-Fiction

In The Mirror 

          Have you ever realized that you will never actually know what you look like until you see a picture of yourself? A mirror reflects back an opposite image, not what you really look like. It’s like listening to a recording of yourself. Few people like the sound of their voices, but the way others hear them is not dislikable at all.
            As I stare at the girl in my mirror, I see two bluish orbs encased in white spheres. There is a ring of green gently circling each iris that seems to change with the lighting and what I’m wearing. My eyes are drawn now to the patch of skin between my eyebrows. I’m going to need to tweeze again soon. If there’s one thing that I hate, it’s tweezing.
            My eyes run down my nose. The freckles I developed over the summer are fading. I can’t see the bump that makes my schnoz protrude a bit too far for my liking. I look at my lips. People have told me I have perfect lips. I always thank them, but I’m not quite sure what they mean. I’m not complaining, though.
            I catch my own eye again. I find myself wondering what I look like with my eyes closed. I tilt my head back and lower my lids when I see the few stray, alien eyelashes that always decide to grow out of my eyelids. My mom says I should pluck those, too, but I don’t think I have the patience to do it. I kind of like them, anyway. It adds an extra bit of character.
            My face is pale and heart-shaped. I often joke that I’m the whitest white person you’ll ever meet, that I’m part albino or something. I’m Italian, but I either burn or stay ghostly. I’d rather be a ghost than a fried tomato or a heart that’s too red.
Photo courtesy of Google Images and
            I notice a few pimples but try not to focus on them. I don’t need to be more self-conscious than I already am. I close my eyes. As I write this, I notice I always come back to my eyes. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, you know. I like my eyes. I love all the little jags and zigzags of different colors in them. In The Princess Bride, Buttercup says that Wesley had “eyes like the sea after a storm.” I’d like to meet somebody with eyes like those. But I digress.
            There is a rare smudge of mascara beneath my right eye. I rub it away. I blink. Smile. See my teeth, straight and white, but not pale like my face. I blink again and stop staring. It’s just me.

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