how ironic. another twisted little surprise that the universe bestows upon us.
there I was. sat in the coiffeuse' swiveling chair. I had just returned from a nice relaxing shampoo, rinse, condition and a luxurious head massage. she twirled me around as she adjusted the towel and there, staring back at me in the mirror was ...
what THE fuck? no, this wasn't some strange hallucination where I was visited by maternal guilt and had some sort of flashback of my mother, lecturing me like the evil stepmother in Snow White.
nor was it one of those odd occasions where we are up close, examining each facet and feature for a line ... a flaw ... a change, while we hear our mothers' voice in our heads (see I TOLD you to start with the face cream in your 20s...).
no. this was a horrendously surreal, out-of-body experience where I gazed upon my very own reflection and did not recognize myself. No, instead I saw my mother's visage looking back at me. I did a few Patty Duke exercises (she smiles a like, she frowns alike) ... and I swear to fucking christ I did NOT see myself in the mirror. I saw my mother. It was horrible. just horrible I tell you. This realization lasted at least 2 or 3 minutes as I sat there, speechless ... eyeing the stranger before me.
Growing up, in my family of mostly women my mother was the pretty one. Long blond hair, blue eyes, and a very petite frame ... she was a looker. In fact, my mother ALWAYS had a better figure than me.
Except for a few years here and there, she was always slimmer. and more put together. Granted, my face didn't scare children or anything. But I was always more round. Which altered the shape and look of my face. No one ever said (as many do about mothers/daughters) "she looks JUST like her mother!". Always felt a bit competitive when we went barhopping together (a whole OTHER blog post there) and inevitably seemed to be competing for the same guy. (I know ... weird, huh?!) but anyway. Given this, one would think that staring into the mirror and seeing her face wouldn't necessarily seem a bad thing.
But of course. It wasn't her young face. It was her 40something face. Not a horrible face. But... a face that could lead me down the path of her face now. which of course is quite a bit further down the road past 40. the fact that we're estranged (my choice) and now I have to see her ghost in the mirror ain't helping things either.
Or the fact that, like many women, I have spent more years than I care to mention SWEARING I would NEVER turn into my mother. And yet. apparently I have. or I will. despite all of my careful efforts.
I have always screened myself for tell-tale signs. The sound of my laugh. (is it like hers?) Phrases and mannerisms. Little pet annoyances and habits that betray my lineage. Upon detecting them, I launch my counter-campaign to attack and destroy all evidence.
But how can I attack and destroy my changed looks? I attribute this new discovery to my recent weight loss, which has apparently peeled away my cloak of secrecy and exposed me for what I am. my mother's daughter.
I know this post is somewhat humorous. amusing, even. But I am truly distraught.