Mirrors often occupy an uneasy place within the collective consciousness. A reflected replica of this world, not quite false, but not entirely real either. The liminal ambiguity lends itself well to folklore, legends, and myth; regaled tales of wandering eyes and flickering lights. Yet the most unsettling thing about a mirror is perhaps not the murky unknown that slinks in the shadows. It is more the fear that the face we see reflected back at us is, indeed, our own: unaltered, unedited, and unfiltered. Raw and candid – your authentic self.
Having spent the better half of my teenage years obsessively fixating on my appearance, I now feel a stranger to any semblance of authenticity in my twenties. The vanity in my bedroom can certainly attest to this. Resembling an ambitious Victorian apothecary, every crook and crevice is crammed with antidotes to the inevitable. Anti-aging, anti-wrinkle, and anti-frizz; serum for plumper lips, a concoction for brighter eyes, or cream for a smoother complexion. These promises I took as gospel, neatly arranging the tiny bottles in votive style around my mirror, in some delirious hope that these offerings would change what I see looking back at me.
But these insecurities bleed, and sharks can smell blood in the water. It doesn’t take long for social media algorithms to catch on. Endless pages of influencers preach ‘self-care’ with a siren-like hypnosis that sucks me in. Each clamouring for your attention through the screen, showcasing the newest, shiniest cosmetic product on the market. All of them brandish their version of the crème de la crème of the industry, a colourful rotation of more than 1000 ‘must have’ products – and you simply must have it. Can you afford the price of beauty? They implicitly ask. No answer is required, their profits will speak for you.
Yet the notion of ‘self-care’, and all the images of tender softness it conjures, is entirely misleading. A trending buzzword that hides the authenticity it should champion – being content with your appearance doesn’t necessarily work for a brand image. Beauty becomes defined by what sells out first and the buyer’s market is saturated with our feelings of inadequacy, broken down and churned out into capitalist fodder. So chasing the consumerist high of the wholly unattainable can only end in disappointment. Inevitably, the only winners in this rat race are the companies that prey and profit off manufactured insecurities. If we’re not starving, how will they eat?
But, the knowledge that we’re lambs to the slaughter doesn’t really do much for self-confidence, and being aware of capitalist ploys certainly does not heal a festering wound. However, the resentment I felt on behalf of my teenage self towards this breed of influencer has become to feel misplaced. Although complicit in a system that is rigged to exploit insecurity, under the surface, they are perhaps no different to me. We are together stuck in this rut; discontent with our appearance, wishing to look like another. Draining your bank to fill the pockets of another avaricious corporation will not change the feelings that burn inside.
Despite these revelations, my reflection has not changed and my vanity table remains the same, so I will not pretend there is some magic cure-all remedy for this. But a labour of love has begun to take place; to be content with what I see in the mirror, I first have to mend the despair I have felt from within. This kind of metamorphosis is one I can gladly yield to – a transformation I will greet like an old friend.
Now, when I glimpse the crinkle around my Dad’s eyes as he laughs, and the curve of my Mum’s smile, I suddenly cannot bear the thought of not looking just like them. My face, as I see it now, is a tapestry of all those who love me. And if I pull at the threads, will the whole thing unravel? This uncertainty is enough to sate my curiosity. So, now, when I scrutinise my appearance in the mirror, I do not just see my own reflection staring back. I see the laugh lines that have formed from years of joking with my sister, I see the creases on my forehead from a lifetime of pulling faces with my parents, and, above all, I see myself.
A love letter to authenticity
