In the morning, the bathroom is harshly lit, and I stare back at the painted face in the mirror. I do not recognize myself. Suddenly, out of frustration and anger, I turn on the sink, and splash the cold water on my face. Looking up again, the mirrored face is distorted, black eyes dripping down blotchy cheeks. Empowered, I splash more water, scrubbing off the face that matches everyone else. Gingerly lifting my face from the towel, I recognize my own smile in the mirror.
To the girl staring through racks of clothes. Do you think you're beautiful? You can't be older then 11 or 12. You haven't even hit puberty. Yet, your dark hair is bleached a platinum blond. Your nails are painted plasticy pink, and your gangly arms are plastered in bangles. Do you think that makes you beautiful? A tank-top. Torn shorts. An expensive-looking purse, plastered with designer labels. Do you think you're beautiful?
I can see you staring at me, judging me through the fabrics on hangers between us. An older, chubbier girl with frizzy curls, no makeup except for dark red lipstick, in overalls and an old tee-shirt. I can see the disapproval in your eyes, but your glossy lips stay shut. Would it shock you to know that I think I'm beautiful? Or would it surprise you more to know I'm staring back?
I see something in your eyes that you might not know is there. Even outlined in black liner, caked behind eyeliner and clumpy mascara, there's a childish uncertainty.
To the girl on the other side of the rack. Do you think you're beautiful?
awesome u tell em rey rey!!!
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