Perfection

I woke up this morning, and I painted around my eyes and plumped my lashes and I made sure that every last strand of my hair was in a perfect place. My face was framed nicely; the way I was done up complimented only my best assets.
I spritzed perfume on my neck, my arms, my chest.
I stared at myself in the mirror, turned around and made sure that I looked just as fine from a different angle. I strained my neck to make sure that my hair looked okay in the back as well.
Good, I'm ready, I thought.
Ready for another day of making sure that I look good enough for their standards, so that I can go unnoticed. Perfect. Simply perfect.
I sighed.
Is this really the only reason I've ever been acceptable? Is it true that this--the way I look unnaturally--is the only "good" look for me?
I wandered down the hall to go brush my teeth. No need to eat breakfast. I hadn't had a full meal in almost a week and I was finally feeling the results. I patted my stomach. It moaned at me for treating it the way I did, but I ignored it.
Sorry, I mentally told it. It's better off this way.
I allowed myself a glass of water, and checked my reflection in the hallway mirror.
Every flaw, imperfection...
Every bump, hair, zit, splotch. A think veil of makeup was the only thing keeping me from smashing that cursed reflection to bits.
I blinked. At least those eyes of mine looked...nice. To say the least.
I bit my lip and held a staring contest with the reflection of me, the one in the mirror. I fluffed my hair, soft with the aid of product. It'd never been that soft naturally.
I looked at my eyes again. Confidence. You have to show them confidence, I thought.
You look fine....
I turned to head out the door, and then for the first time since this guise had become who I was, I stopped.
I turned, and looked at the mirror, once more.
I stared my reflection down, and finally, I spoke aloud.
"Is this...is this really me?"





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