The
face appeared one fine November morning, and gazed at itself as if it
had awoken from one hundred years of slumber. The person it belonged
to saw and realised the importance of the moment and yet couldn't
exclaim because they were sat in a hairdresser's chair, and the
stylist was conversing about this and that over her newly washed
hair.
At
some point between being reclined over a basin and led to a cushioned
seat in front of a wall mirror, a metamorphosis or a split had
occurred, and with no contortions or twitches, facial or bodily. Was
it when the protein boost treatment, that she hadn't requested but
later paid for, was applied? For after that, after her hair had been
towel-dried, her expression seemed different, wide-eyed, and yet more
imp-like than child.
The
separation occurring in two shakes of a lamb's tail; quicker than
milk and cream, or oil from nut butter. The real face behind the
usual mask rose to the surface and, rather than peeking shyly out,
brazenly took control. The mask subsided, almost as if not doing so
wasn't a choice, as if some agreement, long ago, had been struck, and
the moment had to be when she was unawares, so that she would finally
see herself, fleetingly, as others see her: the glowing skin, the
mischief in the eyes.
The
surprise, that made her wide-eyed, would be enough to awaken that
slumberous knowledge, even if it at times it fell into a doze,
because the coma, at least, would be broken.
But
the quiet containment that she wasn't a horror, that at times she
'had something' came much later when the transfiguration to her of
her features was less potent, still there yet shared with the usual
mask.
And
what that 'something' was she couldn't declare to herself in the
mirror then, or even when the face chooses to show itself now. Yes,
there are words to describe the pallor, the effect, the expression,
and yet they only half-explain the realisation of that instant when
it happens and the beat it lasts for. The more accurate terms come to
the brain when they're not needed and then don't stay or reappear
when they are, and so if I was to say that the 'something' was
cherubic or a prettiness that had crept over the features that
wouldn't be it. It was that and more and something other.
A
relaxation in the brow and around the mouth, a devil-may-care look in
the eyes. A simpleness that for the most part wasn't present, that
the usual mask for no apparent reason often disguised, and yet the
face, in its place, wasn't pure innocence either; it seemed, in fact,
more mischievous than sensitive or naïve. A puckish expression
which having tired of its underground chambers had returned to stake
its renewed interest in life-participation on a casual basis,
perhaps, in time, working itself up to a job share.
But
although this mirrored revelation was caught, the circumstances were
far from ideal, for at the height of its reveal, the conversation,
already engaged in, was in a two-way flow, which was also in
competition with the background: pop music and other stilted
conversations going on around as other customers too had their hair
shampooed and snipped. The person in the chair had to be sly to not
appear narcissistic, particularly since that wasn't who she was at
all, and yet this fresh perspective was fascinating, like a view she
never expected to see from her apartment but somehow suddenly could.
She
wanted to stare, to inch the chair closer to the mirror and examine
every pore; touch this fine-looking skin and make sure it belonged to
her and not some mirage that would vanish in a pool of illuminated
glass, and yet because she was not alone she was prevented, as were
her hands which, beneath the black gown, were forced to cling to her
thighs. So, all she had were her eyes, which seemed unable to tell
whether it was a trick of the light or the simple fact that she was
farther away from her reflection. The mirror image had everything and
did everything she did: the same shapes, the same contours, the same
gestures, and yet was not what she usually saw when she appraised
herself before she walked out the door.
The
face she glimpsed, and would continue to recognise, was attractive
enough, and in its own way, right.
Picture credit: Not to be Reproduced, 1937, Rene Magritte