My entire life I have avoided mirrors. As a little girl, my mother had attempted more than once to braid my hair before the mirror in our bathing room, to no avail. As soon as I looked at my reflection I would begin screaming and crying and become so hysterical that she would have to put me in a warm bath and sing lullabies just to calm me. After a while, she gave up altogether and even went as far as to cover all the mirrors in the house.

When I’d grown a bit older, she asked me about my reaction. I’d simply shrugged and replied, “I’m afraid of mirrors.” It was a lie, of course. I wasn’t afraid of mirrors. I was afraid of what I saw every time I looked in one. I had some semblance of an idea of what I looked like. Mother had my portrait painted when I turned fourteen. I knew my hair was long and dark and my eyes were emerald green. I knew I had my father’s prominent nose. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see my own face. Instead, I saw the face of what appeared to be some sort of hideous monster. The monster was so horrid and leering that I didn’t dare speak of it, even to Mother. And after a while, when I no longer came across mirrors, I began to forget its existence. It was like some distant, terrible nightmare lurking in the shadows, ever present but rarely acknowledged.