I look at the mirror

Natalie Karimi

I look at the mirror, barely opening my eyes.The light in the bathroom hurts my head. I am in my mother’s arms, protected. Blurred lines of purple, pink and red. My blanket. Squinting, I reach out my hand, slightly feeling the breeze of the ventilation. Mother’s heartbeat beats into my back. A smile is what is clear in those blurred lines.

I look at the mirror whilst standing on the gray, marble counter. My dad grabs my chubby thighs and teaches me the moonwalk with Michael Jackson singing Billie Jean in the background. I nearly trip into the sink, but his big hands catch me just in time. My palms inch towards the mirror, clenching onto it, trying to touch the reflection of my curly, dirty-blond hair that covers my entire head. I bounce up and down as dad places his hands near my hips, preparing to catch me in case I decide to do a trust fall.

I look at the mirror, old enough to stand on the ground and see the edge of my bangs if I stood on my tippy toes. That is where I find shiny, silver scissors that mom uses to trim daddy’s hair. I like my curly hair, but I want to look like daddy. My ring, middle and index finger fit into one of the holes, the other handle is met by my other hand; together they meet in the middle and slice down the side of my bangs. I look at the mirror and laugh.

I look at the mirror. My first day of school. Spiderman and his web is all over my backpack. I have my buzz lightyear bracelet that says in green ink “To infinity and BEYOND!”

“Hi, my name is Maximillian.” I practice those words a few times to make sure I am fluent enough to say them effortlessly in case someone were to ask me my name.

I look at the mirror. People start rumors that you still sleep with a teddy bear and wear spiderman socks. Fifth grade is never easy. My hair, still curly, no longer covers my forehead. Instead it grew to my shoulders. I want to be in highschool, just like my pen pal, Jack. He said that I’ll grow up fast enough, it’s just the ticking of a clock that determines time.

I look at the mirror. I am borrowing dads aftershave. All the boys in the eighth grade shave. Who cares if I don’t have a stubble. It’s all about the experience, right?

I throw open the drawers under the sink, toilet paper, pads, tampons? Wrong drawer. I open the one beside it. Dad’s cologne. This will show Sabrina I am man enough to take her to the eighth grade dance.

I look at the mirror. Halfway through highschool you get the sudden realization that school won’t last forever. What the hell do I do with my life ? My curly hair is at its peak. Flowing down to my neck, the messy bun is the charm of my appearance. Guys asked me how my hair has so much volume and I always reply “shampoo and conditioner, my guy. Ditch the four in one’s.” But really, I have no idea how I keep my hair this way.

I wonder what I will look like in thirty years when I look in the mirror; I guess tender time will tell.