My roommate's friend is visiting this weekend; that means that the mirrors were uncovered yesterday. (And I wanted to use the scarf with which I'd covered the mirror.) I'm looking at myself again, and I'm mildly disgusted. I liked that feeling when they were covered. Not that what I am feeling is anything major - but the slight bit of pressure to look at myself from a perspective other than my own is back.
I wonder what it would have been like to have lived six centuries ago and never have clearly seen what I looked like. I would be the murky image in water, the ghosted image in the window. If I had lived then, I hope I wouldn't have cared about seeing my face.
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