Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who has pores that aren't small?
That’s what I think to myself when I peer into the mirror mounted next to the sink in the bathroom. It’s one of those magnifying mirrors that supply a close-up look at your face to aid in personal grooming and to hurt your feelings.
The item would come in handy for the application of makeup. But I use the mirror almost exclusively during depilatory efforts: shaving, trimming nose hairs, or plucking eyebrows.
The magnification helps me spot strands that might otherwise go unnoticed and run wild. I have been known to sprout Larry Hagman–esque brows. On occasion, I have been known to sprout Larry Hagman–esque brows from inside my nostrils.
One time I told a coworker, “I just pulled the longest hair from my nose” (I am not professional). And she told me she had seen the errant hair but thought it was so long and silky that it had to be a head hair that had come loose and was somehow clinging to the end of my nose.
“I can’t believe that was attached,” she marveled.
(PSA: I pulled that one out, but you’re supposed to trim nose hairs rather than pluck them to avoid infections and ingrown hairs.)
Eventually, I got a magnifying mirror to prevent an episode like that from happening again. If there are strange things growing on my face, I don’t want them to escape my notice. I’d rather know the unpleasant truth than live a lie. The lie being, in this case, any notion that I’m not a person who can produce record-setting nose hairs.
I do sometimes wish, though, that the mirror didn’t have to be quite such a merciless truth-teller when it comes to letting me know about fine lines, wrinkles, age spots, and other ravages of time. I’d never go full Blanche DuBois with paper lanterns over all the light bulbs to preserve my fragile illusions. But must the mirror play Stanley Kowalski, rubbing my face in brute fact?
Actually, I’d love to see Stanley Kowalski in my mirror ‘cause he’s hot. Course, if he was in my mirror, he’d be me. And instead of facing brute fact I’d stare at my reflection all the time. Which would make me Narcissus. Who was also hot. So I guess that would be okay, too.
This mirror metaphor is starting to feel like a hall of mirrors.
At any rate, there’s a problem with claiming mirrors tell the whole truth and nothing but. Because they don’t. They reverse the image. And then they make you so familiar with that reflection, through umpteen teeth-brushings and Lord only knows how many nose-hair-trimmings, that you come to prefer the reversed image over whoever that impostor in your selfies is.
Psychologists blame the “mere exposure effect, which is the consistent finding that we’re more comfortable with and favorable toward things we see frequently.” But if that’s true, then why am I so sick of Flo from Progressive?
Photos, on the other hand, don’t reverse the image of your face, so the camera supplies a more accurate depiction of your appearance than a mirror does. Isn’t that depressing?
In nearly every photo I’ve ever seen of myself, I look simultaneously angry and confused. Like I’m thinking, I don’t understand what’s going on here, but I don’t like it one bit.
And sure, that’s how I feel at all times, but I don’t want to go around looking surly and befuddled. As I believe we have established, I’d much rather go around looking like Stanley Kowalski.
Indirect Objects 