I sat down and reluctantly stared at the person in the mirror. He was familiar enough for me to have the courage to sit down in silence.
For the first few minutes, I fidgeted in every imaginable way. Moving my head. Moving my eyes from my lips up onto my eyes, then towards my forehead.
I sketched every inch of my face and skimmed around my head. And that’s when it hit me that I was kind of having a bad hair day. I have heard that phrase but haven’t used it, well there you go. It was a bad hair day.
But was it really? Isn’t the definition of a bad hair day, the experience of unworthiness? Because although the day was long, I did not experience a bad hair day. In fact, I had on a hoodie all day while trying to explain abstraction to a bunch of high school kids.
It was a great day. Not exactly lovely, but a great day nonetheless.
As I am continuing to stare at this foreign body, I come to notice all the subtleties. I notice the olive oil on the skin. I notice the uneven beard line that refuses to fill in. I also noticed the troll-like eyes that declined to acknowledge a serious moment.
I really tried to objectively observe but I couldn’t help but laugh my ass off. I thought to myself…
