Mirrors were invented to delay you. To stand there placid,
and somehow convince you that you’re not looking right. It’s the reason you
have to change five tops till you’ve found perfection. It then proceeds to
inform you that the jeans however, are the wrong shade of blue. Too pale for
that white tee, it seems to suggest. So you try the black ones and take another
peek. Your mirror glares at you reproachfully. “Really now, why don’t you toss
in a bowtie and walk out looking like a waiter.” You give it the finger and
plunge back into the cupboard.
Something radically different, perhaps. A dress. You shimmy
into an emerald green shirt-dress and marvel at the beautiful fall for the
millionth time. Tentatively, you step in front of the mirror. Your heart longs
for approval. “Woohoo. Nice.” Oh yeah.
According to that sheet of glass you’re looking like a hell of a chick. Just
wait till the hair and makeup’s done.
The mirror gives you the thumbs up the whole time you’re
braiding your hair, smiles proudly as you dust on funky green eye shadow and
roll on heaps of gloss. And then you and your reflection exchange satisfied
pouts as you slide in a pair of bead earrings. You go girl.
And then the phone rings. Your mum walks in in a salwar
kameez (not sari) and that’s when you get a faint inkling that the mirror has
misled you. She hands you the phone. It’s from your BFF.
“Dude, what are you wearing? The whole basketball team’s
going to stick with jeans, and I’m thinking I will too. After all, it’s their
party … you also wear, no? Don’t bother with anything too nice.”
Your world collapses around you. Ripping the dress off, you
dive into the cupboard, desperately searching for a top. Every few seconds you
run to the mirror. It coolly dismisses a printed shirt as too flowery, a black
spaghetti as too Goth, a pink V-neck as too Barbie... your mom walks in every five
minutes and says you’re running late. You feel like you’re going to cry.
“Give me two minutes!” you bawl as the mirror ruthlessly
rejects a lacy yellow halter. Flinging the delicate fabric at the glass, you
burrow in the depths of the closet, half hoping the parents will forget about
you and leave. Then suddenly, your eyes fall on the white top you couldn’t find
jeans for. You yank it on, shove your legs into a pair of
jeggings, give the mirror a disgusted sneer and storm out of the room.
You swear you’ll pull a bedsheet over that blasted piece of
glass. But of course, you know you don’t have the heart to do that. Mirror,
mirror on the wall…
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