If my mirror could speak to me, I think the first thing it would tell me is to take care of it properly. There are toothpaste stains and old scum on me, clean me! I'm dirty, I can't serve my purpose!" Or at least, that's what I think it's first request would be. It seems to be the most reasonable one.
In order to properly function, a mirror must be clean so you can see your "true self." Or rather, so you can see your appearance. The other night, I was watching The Hunchback of Notre Dame and noticed a particular phrase that I hadn't quite caught the first few times I had watched it as a child: "Now here is a riddle, to guess if you can, (sing the Bells of Notre Dame) what makes a monster and what makes a man?" Quite frankly, a mirror cannot distinguish this, unless it is the Magic Mirror in Shrek. A mirror picks up appearance, nothing more nothing less.
My mirror would tell me that I have green eyes. My mirror would tell me that I have two freckles on my neck that have been there for as long as I can remember. It would tell me that I am thin and tall and pale, most likely due to my Scandinavian heritage. It would tell me that my hair and skin changes color with the seasons, lighter and darker respectively the warmer it is. My mirror would be honest. And perhaps, I would listen to it.
Perhaps I would see all these things my mirror has shown me. But, upon closer look, my mirror would tell me that I have stretch marks on my neck from growing up too fast. It would tell me that the negligible scar on my thumb is, in fact, still there. it would tell me that I have fallen far too much for my knobby knees and elbows are now a different color from the amount of scar tissue that has become my new padding. It would tell me that my fingers are spindly and misshapen, but it would not warn me of the fact that this is not acceptable. It would notice my choice in jewelry, how I never take off my necklace due to a need for security. It would notice my choice in clothing, strategically placed on my body in order to hide what I don't want my mirror to see.
My mirror would be honest to me. But for the longest time, I would not be honest with myself. My mirror shows me everything - the good, the bad, the ugly. Depending on the day, I choose what I see. As do many others I am certain. I wish it weren't so easy to pick up the bad things, but the good things are so rarely seen on a mirror. My mirror sees me in my plainest state. It does not see my smile when I get an unexpected letter in the mail. It does not see the power of my legs when I sprint across a field, faster than I've been before. It does not see the comfort in my body language when I hold a person I love dearly. It does not see my hands dance along an instrument in order to create something beautiful. It does not see the way I wrap myself in music, totally and utterly enticed by emotion. It does not see me laugh, or cry, or show true emotion.
My mirror does not, and will never, see the best of me.
The best of me can simply not be seen by a mirror.
