Sitting in front of the mirror, staring at herself and her reflection, she moves closer and tilts her head to the side. She runs her fingers over her face, feeling the dry patches, the raised bumps. There are some small patches of discoloration where she stops for a moment, moving her chin up and back. She closes her eyes and then moves again to a frontal view, taking in the full scope of her face. Sunlight filters in from the window, the orange white soft glow of the lamp above the mirror flickers and buzzes. Exhaling, she ticks off the things she knows she should probably work on: plucking her eyebrows, applying an exfoliation mask, skimming the peach fuzz along her jawline, her upper lip. She should probably also use some toner sooner than later and maybe look for new eye serum, the fine lines appearing in her reflection at a nose’s distance. 

She steps back, thinking about the lengths to which she has gone to remove herself from the societal pressures and definitions of beauty. No makeup applied, hardly even lip balm at this point. She does not have an esthetician nor a stylist. The most she does is clip her fingernails every other week, plucking her eyebrows when she starts to notice the fine hairs. No fake lashes, no hair dyes. The grays appearing in streaks along her forehead and behind her ears. Breathing in, she wonders if she is should call the shop down the street to get her hair cut or spend the twenty dollars on a pair of shears. 

Perhaps not plugged in enough, perhaps not spending enough time on her appearance, she wonders what she would look like with a bit more effort. With a bit more time. But she wonders to what end. An extra five minutes to apply makeup that will come off at the end of the day? Another $50 a month on maintaining a beauty habit? And for whom? 

She reaches up to a woven basket of old supplies, standing on her tiptoes to pull down the tweezers, nail file, and washcloth. Perhaps a few minutes, just to scrub, to snip, to cleanse everything that has built up. It’s a moment to take care of her body without adding more on. It’s an erosion, simplifying what’s there. She twists her hair up in a knot, turns the faucet on, and looks up at her reflection. Smiling briefly, she leans over and brings her hands to her face, warm water against her skin. Nothing else but exactly what is.