Mirror Moments: One Man Unveils Himself, To Himself
Look at that face. What a handsome mug. That’s the face of a winner. And surrounded by my mane of hair, shining in the morning light, freshly dewy from the shower. Oh, hello rippling biceps. G’morning, upper abs. This mirror is lucky it doesn’t go any lower, or that I don’t step back—so it won’t have its mind blown by what lies beneath. That’s right, mirror, it’s your lucky day. Okay, enough lallygagging. It’s time to get serious. Splashy splash.
Look at the water glistening as it streams down my cheeks. Imagine if it were sweat. Like a warrior, fresh from battle. The Ultimate Warrior. But he did all those steroids. And his muscles looked like bad meat. That’s not what the ladies love. Girls are into lithe, natural bodies. Bodies like mine, with more subtlety to their muscles. They probably talk about it. Like Jenn, whose seat is 3 down from mine on the shared desk. When she and Skye come back from the bathroom talking and smiling, they may not be looking at me, but I bet I know the topic of conversation: the way she can almost see the definition of my chest through my shirt. She doesn’t need to see it to know its strength. Like God. Or a ninja.
It’s the same with the moustache. Keep it shaved close. They’ll know the power that lies underneath. I don’t want a bunch of hairs detracting from the crystalline angles that are my cheekbones. I’m sucking in my cheeks, sure, but look at those ridges of bony heaven; that’s just the right amount of suck. Jenn, Skye, all the women, even the guys—Jeff, Michael, Chen, Gay Michael—they all dig my clean shave. Forget digging it; they respect it. It tells them I’m organized, I pay attention, I’m dependable. I’m not some sinister moustache man who could pull a gun, or would rev a motorcycle engine way too loudly. That’s right, Jenn, this is the seamless upper lip of a guy you could trust and really talk to. I’m here for you. And your cat. I’m fine with cats. “Should we get a pizza later?”
No. Don’t ask the question. I don’t want to be the “should we” guy. It’s not the end of a romantic comedy, where it’s just two people left on screen. I’m not a successful doctor with inexplicable amounts of free time, and she is not a clumsy girl with a no-nonsense sister. Jenn is definitely not clumsy; she wears glasses and I can see her being an above average skier. And I know for a fact her sister went to rehab last year. Forget about the pizza. Jenn is cool, but not too cool for a classic date. Make a reservation. Somewhere famous.
Good rinse. Now, I have to make sure I towel off my whole face. It’s all about the details. A smudge of shaving cream, an untied shoe, a hint of bad breath, when people see these things they think, “I’ll find someone else to do the job, to ask for advice, to take off my bra.” I don’t want that. I want to be on point, on the mark, on time. Ahead of time, in fact. “Oh, good thing you made the reservation 4 months ago, otherwise we’d never get to try this famous soup.”
Speaking of which, what time is it?
It’s almost 8 o’clock!! Gotta get dry, get dressed. Did I take my Adderall? Where’s my backpack? The bus will be here in 5 minutes and Mr. Rankinson gives extra homework if you’re late to class. Jenn is never late to class. Probably because she doesn’t have to do all this stuff. Girls are so lucky.