I sat next to this French couple on the plane to San Francisco.
They were hip. The man had yellow-tinted spectacles I'm almost certain did nothing for his vision but, I think, were I a different kind of woman, perhaps they would have greatly enhanced his sex appeal. He was reading Kafka and looking very, very serious. The woman was strange. She was shiny--not so much *she* was shiny, but she had patent platforms, a glittering weapon of a belt, bold oh-so-avante garde jewellry and these sparkly little jewels on her fingernails. Her hair was overdone and lacquered so that it honestly appeared to be a wig. Most importantly, though, was this ring she wore. It was a mirror, shaped like a harlequin's diamond, set in silver. She wore it on her left index finger, and gesticulated often--blinding several passengers. I was one of the wounded parties, but still found it vaguely reassuring she could signal for help were misfortune to set upon us. With this tiny sliver of a mirror, she carefully applied, wiped off, then reapplied her lipstick. Whore of Babylon red lipstick. Over and over again, this ritual of hers. It was both fascinating and repulsive at once.
She was beautiful, no doubt, but it was hard to spot it behind all the
distorted reflections and shocks of light she had strategically placed.
How funny it is to me to find a woman so seemingly vain, who unwittingly
detracts from her beauty by painstakingly arranging a wall of mirrors.
You fend off Gorgons and Medusas that way, not society.
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