A Generation Of Vanity Mirrors

My mother has a scrapbook of ways to look younger.
My mother has a scrapbook of ways to make herself small.

First there is white bread. Then brown bread. Then no bread. She says carbs like a child swearing for the first time — shy; ashamed. She uses pineapple and honey on her face. I find the empty Tupperware containers in the bathroom. They are sticky and yellow. She washes her hair with eggs, olive oil, and vinegar.

When I go to borrow her lip-balm, I see creams and serums lined up on her vanity. Shiny magazines with the word LOSE in hot pink letters — lose weight, lose wrinkles, lose… yourself. I look into her mirror and wonder just what she sees as her eyesight softens with age.

A woman. Short. Blond hair.
A woman. Belly fat. Crow’s feet.
A woman. Forty-nine. Waiting.

There has to be more.

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