I look nothing like I think I do. I think I look exactly as I did years ago, but the mirror tells me otherwise.
The mirror lies.
The mirror points out flaws I never knew I had. Truths I never believed existed. Flaws that would never exist on me.
Well, apart from the cosmetically enhanced ears that look level but aren’t, and one that works better than the other.
Apart from the lob-sided face that’s as symmetrical as a cart of apples being dragged at speed along a cobbled road.
Apart from the hair that looks as far from perfect as a sheet ironed with a sponge.
Apart from all of them, I’m perfect. I don’t recognise myself when I look in the mirror. I’m not that old for one. How dare you, mirror. What are you trying to say?
But mirror, what have you done with the real me? The blond me… the shy me… the young me? I was there recently, how did you speed things along?
How can you lean there mirror, showing me this image which isn’t me? Where did you get that belly from? Those bags under the eyes? Those chins? The <GASP> grey hair? How dare you highlight my hair in that way – you know it always causes me trouble.
How can you show me like this now, when you never did before?
What do you mean you did? I never noticed… you’d think I’d notice.
So, what are you saying? Pay more attention?
But it’s me… how much attention do I need? I’m perfect?
Aren’t I, mirror?