I play Russian Roulette with my mirror. I never know if I’m going to like what I see each time.
“Oh, you look alright today,” would be the sentiment on fair days. The day passes by uneventfully, mostly never remembered.
“Ugh, what is wrong with your face?” would be the judgement at other times. “Look at yourself, you look utterly and absolutely disgusting.” And then you would remember that your father used to say things like that to your acned 14-year-old self.
“Look at your face,” I’d remind myself, and remind myself I would for the rest of the day.
I grew up with a fear of having pictures of face taken, and also with the disappointment of my friends who wanted to take pictures with me.
“Let’s take a photo together,” they’d suggest, as we hang out for tea, at the park, or at a party.
“I’d rather not, sorry.”
“Oh. Okay then.”
Soon, they’d learn to stop asking altogether.