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Description
One day I looked in the mirror, and a proud young woman looked back at me.

I stopped myself short on the way to the shower, gripped the edge of the counter, leaned over the sink, and stared.

The girl in the mirror looked back quite calmly. Her light brown hair was shining and fell back from her forehead with an easy, natural beauty; her skin was smooth, her jawline firm; her dark brows were curved perfectly and firmly above her eyes, which were a most beautiful and intriguing shade of hazel, with flecks of green, brown, and gold. The eyes stared back into my own -- not challenging, not questioning, just looking.

I leaned back onto my heels but kept looking at my reflection. She mirrored my every movement with an easy grace that seemed to come to her as simply as the movements themselves. I raised a hand to brush back a fall of hair and she did the same, still keeping her eyes locked with mine, not smiling, her pink rosebud lips turned down slightly at the edges. An expression of hard examination, but without the drawing together of the face that usually comes. A most arresting stare.

Who was that young, graceful woman in the mirror? Not me, for sure -- I was an uncoordinated, immature little girl who laughed at the most random things, made comments that my sister looked at me strangely for, and who insulted said sisiter childishly at the slightest provocation. This poised, perfect creature could not be me. I wasn't beautful. I wasn't ugly, either -- I was just me, thick-framed glasses and unstraightened teeth, long legs and a smart mouth.

I knew that the graceful young lady existed. She came out, nervously, to be charming and polite to strangers, visitors, grown-up company. Once she was out, she was determined to stay as long as any strange eye was upon her -- but as soon as those eyes looked away, she fled back into hiding. I sometimes wondered at how I could pull her out at will -- so many people didn't know that she was just a construct that I used to keep myself safe and my mother proud.

I exaggerate, of course -- I am rather prone to doing that. I loved being the graceful girl. She was so charming, so polite, so grown-up -- and I was not that. Not without trying.

So who, then, was that person in the mirror? Where was the girl who fell and scraped her knee open in the driveway? Who ran and sweated and made bad jokes at practice? Who couldn't help but answer any question, the typical know-it-all?

My self image -- the picture of myself I held in my head -- was still young. Very young, maybe 6th grade, someone who could get away with her laughter and thoughtless comments easily. She had no glasses, because that made it too hard to imagine her face. Which was not the composed, adult face looking at me.

When, I wondered -- when had I become that tall, graceful girl who only existed at my parents' parties? Without even trying? I walked a few paces, keeping a close eye on myself in the mirror, and it seemed even my stride had an unworried, even, adult pace. Not a kid's pace, forever dashing about and stumbling and getting in trouble. A mature, teenage woman's pace. Like my sister, even.

I leaned over and looked at my eyes again. They offered no answer, just a calm assessment. I could see now, I finally concluded, why my parents -- why my sister -- called me pretty. Called me beautiful. I could see why some of the boys might have crushes on me. I always thought that my family was just complimenting me because they're my family -- that's their job -- and that the boys were just mistaken, blinded by my personality and my smarts. But apparently, the girl in the mirror existed whether I was trying to bring her out or not.

Is this what they call growing up? I wondered.

I wasn't entirely sure if I liked it.

Description
One day I looked in the mirror, and a proud young woman looked back at me.

I stopped myself short on the way to the shower, gripped the edge of the counter, leaned over the sink, and stared.

The girl in the mirror looked back quite calmly. Her light brown hair was shining and fell back from her forehead with an easy, natural beauty; her skin was smooth, her jawline firm; her dark brows were curved perfectly and firmly above her eyes, which were a most beautiful and intriguing shade of hazel, with flecks of green, brown, and gold. The eyes stared back into my own -- not challenging, not questioning, just looking.

I leaned back onto my heels but kept looking at my reflection. She mirrored my every movement with an easy grace that seemed to come to her as simply as the movements themselves. I raised a hand to brush back a fall of hair and she did the same, still keeping her eyes locked with mine, not smiling, her pink rosebud lips turned down slightly at the edges. An expression of hard examination, but without the drawing together of the face that usually comes. A most arresting stare.

Who was that young, graceful woman in the mirror? Not me, for sure -- I was an uncoordinated, immature little girl who laughed at the most random things, made comments that my sister looked at me strangely for, and who insulted said sisiter childishly at the slightest provocation. This poised, perfect creature could not be me. I wasn't beautful. I wasn't ugly, either -- I was just me, thick-framed glasses and unstraightened teeth, long legs and a smart mouth.

I knew that the graceful young lady existed. She came out, nervously, to be charming and polite to strangers, visitors, grown-up company. Once she was out, she was determined to stay as long as any strange eye was upon her -- but as soon as those eyes looked away, she fled back into hiding. I sometimes wondered at how I could pull her out at will -- so many people didn't know that she was just a construct that I used to keep myself safe and my mother proud.

I exaggerate, of course -- I am rather prone to doing that. I loved being the graceful girl. She was so charming, so polite, so grown-up -- and I was not that. Not without trying.

So who, then, was that person in the mirror? Where was the girl who fell and scraped her knee open in the driveway? Who ran and sweated and made bad jokes at practice? Who couldn't help but answer any question, the typical know-it-all?

My self image -- the picture of myself I held in my head -- was still young. Very young, maybe 6th grade, someone who could get away with her laughter and thoughtless comments easily. She had no glasses, because that made it too hard to imagine her face. Which was not the composed, adult face looking at me.

When, I wondered -- when had I become that tall, graceful girl who only existed at my parents' parties? Without even trying? I walked a few paces, keeping a close eye on myself in the mirror, and it seemed even my stride had an unworried, even, adult pace. Not a kid's pace, forever dashing about and stumbling and getting in trouble. A mature, teenage woman's pace. Like my sister, even.

I leaned over and looked at my eyes again. They offered no answer, just a calm assessment. I could see now, I finally concluded, why my parents -- why my sister -- called me pretty. Called me beautiful. I could see why some of the boys might have crushes on me. I always thought that my family was just complimenting me because they're my family -- that's their job -- and that the boys were just mistaken, blinded by my personality and my smarts. But apparently, the girl in the mirror existed whether I was trying to bring her out or not.

Is this what they call growing up? I wondered.

I wasn't entirely sure if I liked it.