She looked herself in the glass. This was usual. Perfecting herself. The hair, the face, the dress. But, what was it now that stood before her – the she in the glass? She couldn’t quite fathom.
It was a blur.
The mirror was stained. Old. It had aged – it’s wood, not the polished brown. Selotape patches and uneven lines laid upon it. Yet, the she in the glass gleamed through the grey glass, it seemed perfect – patches and lines hidden under layers of makeup. But, for what? All this perfection?
The she smiled. It didn’t seem to understand her worries. Oh, well, she didn’t actually. She just wanted perfection – that is, perfection in her own eyes. And the she in the glass was her aid.
The she… told her what looked good – the colour, the tone and how to put her hair.
Spoke of trends, of society, of the talks that would be told if she wore that instead of that.
Helped her see her other self – the perfect self.
Helped her try out style after style, sing, dance and pose.
Shared her sorrows, her pains. And at times, her smiles.
All this, the she did, silently.
The blurred she in the glass kept on smiling back.
She was perfect, she nodded – the she in the glass nodded in agreement.
The she in the glass had aged – NO, it was the glass that had aged.