I don't remember the moment when I stopped loving my reflection. It seems like it's always been that way. Maybe it was after that classmate's joke about my nose. Or after my mother's sigh: "If only your legs were longer..." Or after the glossy magazines that screamed on every page: "Be perfect, otherwise you're nothing."
The mirror became my enemy. Every time I looked in it, I saw only flaws: hips too wide, lips too thin, hair too unruly. My clothes were my armor black, loose, hiding all my "imperfections." I tried to be as invisible as possible, hiding behind smiles, jokes, smart conversations. Just so no one would notice how I looked.