Beautiful.
That is how he calls me. I taste the letters of the word as I roll them in my mouth. I am wondering, am I really…beautiful?
I push my face close up against the mirror.
I like the frame of my nose and the mellow of my lips. After a year of wearing braces, I finally like the arch of my teeth. The ears are slightly smaller than the average, my father used to call them boxers’ ears because they are a bit flat at the brims. I have no idea what does that have to do with boxers.
My eyes are a little baggy, not too bad for my age, I assume, but I am not so happy about it. The colour of my eyes are quite special, I would say. Hard to spot where they stand on the shade scale from yellow-light brown-to green. This is the eye colour, what cats have often. I like this colour. I got it from my mother.
Without a liner my brows are barely visible, so I need to draw them every morning. I guess I like my face more with brows anyways, so I do not feel oppressed by the trend.
A few steps away from the mirror I can see the person looking back at me from toes to head.
I am 159 cm and my weight is around 60-62 kg. I feel bad about myself if it goes up to 63. A few years ago a lost nearly 10 kilos. I do not want to be fat again. (However, on vacation and around Christmas I allow myself to gain some without feeling too guilty about it.)
I have a relatively muscular body for a woman, wide shoulders and sturdy legs. I am strong for my size. Belly fat and love handles. I hate them both.
My nails are short, my hair is fine, I dye it copper-red. And blond. I have 12 tattoos, 5 piercings and 8 rings in my ears.
My physical health is laudable. My mental health is not that much, but I am working on it.
Staring at the mirror, wondering in my thought far away I do not see any more shapes or lines. Nor flaws or beauty. All I see is a phenomenon of existence. Presence. Gods creation. A mass of cells. Flash and blood. Prison of a soul. A piece of art. One from 7.7 billion. Dust in the universe. Unrepeatable. Me.
