Is that little flickery square in the corner of the screen the real me?
Something has become clear. I need to face up to my face. I’ve taken precisely two selfies in my life, and have long shunned mirrors. My face is a thing that I wear on my head, for protection of health and projection of emotion, but for many years I’ve learned not to think too much about it for fear of drowning. The world’s self-image has been dramatically knocked by technology, by filters and apps that allow portraits to be edited smooth and slippery but, while I don’t want to boast, my personal shame was already fully bedded in long before I got a phone. For many years I was upset at not being pretty, feeling alternately cheated and sad, but over time I came to terms with it, deciding to avoid mirrors, photos, and to store that prickly energy elsewhere. I look in the mirror once a day, to draw on eyeliner, which establishes a boundary and also nods to heroines, and to paint over blemishes, sometimes highlighting them by accident, but by that point the game is already up.
I look in the mirror once a day, to draw on eyeliner, which establishes a boundary and also nods to heroines
Read the original article at The Guardian