Mirror Mirror

One thing that working in a large department store has taught me is to have every angle covered. Not in terms of customer service or product knowledge, but in terms of appearance. Every shift is a trip into the hall of mirrors, except there is no exit and the trip will be at least three hours long.

I’ve never considered how I look from behind, or from three-quarters behind to the left, or from eight-sixths but only in the neck up. Now it’s all I’m looking at for several hours at a time. First there are the mirrors on wall and columns, on racks and in shelves; then there are the mirrors in mirrors. I’ll turn away from my face only to catch the back of my head swiveling around in the mirror to get away from its own mirror—which holds the same very face I was trying to escape. It’s my own daily identity crisis, nestled conveniently between scarves and handbags.   


There is a positive—I finally understand why people who work in such places take so much care of their appearance or, if you will, slather on so much cake and primp so often. It’s not just the permanent and well-lit dissection of one’s own appearance from multiple angles; it’s also the fact they’re dealing with customers and working on commission. In my case every customer that left without buying had me searching for a loose hair or tooth-morsel to blame. I imagine having makeup to fix and clothes to smooth and press would add to ones arsenal of blame. Go in au naturel and you’re playing the self-worth version of strip poker—two strikes and you’re down to questioning your bone structure and basic genetic structure. At least give yourself a layer of bronzer to pick at first.

Not that I’m headed for the make-up counter just yet. For starters it would take me too long to get it right, and the interim mistakes, as told by numerous store mirrors (they go for the face) would be too much to deal with. Plus it’s a slippery slope. I’m one of those people who dismisses something for a long time only to become obsessed with it in the end. Like going to the gym, or watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Start with a bit of cake and I’ll end up with a face that looks like it’s been dipped in varnish.  For now I’m looking into a bit of manscaping. Just a little bit. A touch. A feathering.  You believe me, don’t you?