Window Shopping

Light peered modestly through the blinds. It dazzled and brightened her face with a uniquely calm radiance. Each stroke of the brush in her hands took one less flaw away from her. Some of the hairs that fell to her feet shimmered for an instant or so, barely catching the light-beams crossing the room. She never really applied much force in grooming her hair. The strands were always so straight, so linear that they seemed geometric - artificial. 

Facing her, in its all-encompassing size, was a mirror equally as effervescent as she. It imitated her bronze skin with nearly impeccable detail. She stood so still that the mirror acted almost as a photograph, frozen in the moment of her gentle preparation for the day. The blinds tugged at the image, sheepishly traipsing behind it. Perhaps the woman’s beauty intimidated them. The glass of the mirror was thick enough to stifle any noise coming from outside. Regardless, there were only several inches of it that separated her from the rest of the world. She was in a quaint place, surrounded by others such as herself - each one tending to their own accoutrements. It always astounded her how quiet the space was, how assiduously each of her cohorts worked with their silent techniques. 

She found abundant joy in smiling - enough so to warrant it a permanent place on her lips. There was not a single moment, she thought, where she wasn’t brimming from cheek to cheek. At times, when there were enough silhouettes gathered behind the mirror, she could just barely make out their physical features. Many stout figures often appeared, as well as slender and tall ones. They came in so many variations that it caught her off guard. She considered how strange it was that all these different apparitions emerged in front of her, and yet she had seldom seen physical change of her own. She received much attention for her graceful physiological form, but she was dissatisfied with her body. It didn’t grow, stretch, wither, or shrink. 

Day by day, as the shadows passed her by, she did hardly more than brush the loose hairs from her head, and feverishly grin at her own reflection. It felt rather tragic in her mind, but no matter how much it ate at her conscience, she couldn’t ever release the tense muscles that formed the smirk on her face. She hardly twitched, barely adjusted a limb on her lithe frame. The best she could do was brush her hair until it was straighter than straight, cleaner than clean, ready for each following day that the sun should rise so that those few fallen strands could clasp its warmth.

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