Imagine that you are my bathroom mirror. You've been there for every change in my life, seeing a different view with each change.
You saw me before I was tall enough to see you. I stood on top of that little cream-colored stool so I could look into you and watch Mom doing my hair, observing the way she not only curled my bangs, but poofed them up to triple their original size. You witnessed the whining and frustration and occasional burned forehead, but through the tedious process you also witnessed the sweetness of a mom who cared about me enough
to get up early and do my hair every day.
Do you remember that time when my family had a dirt hill in our back yard? Right before we began landscaping, my family was blessed with the most beautiful asset a home can possess — a giant mound of rich, dark soil. Every evening before bed, you observed as Mom and Dad turned on the shower faucet and waited for me to happily trot into the room, grimy and thoroughly satisfied. You knew me when a productive day meant 20 new mud pies, with the only concern on my mind being whether or not the pies would still be there in the morning.
Sorry to bring up past trauma, but I'm sure you still remember seventh grade. You and I were worst enemies. You saw the too-short haircut, the ill-fitting turtlenecks, the imperfect skin, and worst of all, the braces. Every single morning I had to trudge into the bathroom and look you in the face, and every single morning I hated you. For a while you were covered in hairspray residue — a result of my over-zealous attempts to achieve the perfect hair. That dip in my self-esteem was rough for both of us.
Luckily we got over that little phase. Once I figured out that no one really cared about my perfect ponytail, I regained my confidence. Speaking of which, do you recall the morning of my first debate tournament? I wore that incredibly professional suit, put on my glasses and felt highly intelligent. Rather than get queasy over the thought of speaking in front of my peers, I actually relished the chance to speak up. Instead of agonizing over my hair and make-up, I happily finished the job, turned out the lights, and left you without a second thought.
It was right before my first real date when you reflected me sitting on the counter, brushing mascara over my eyelashes, and humming "How Lovely to be a Woman." Mom stepped in, offering the truest symbol of motherly understanding — a lipstick tube. You watched as I excitedly and carefully applied the color to my lips, rubbing them together, feeling truly beautiful.
Then the doorbell rang and I heard "his" voice, and the butterflies in my stomach took flight. In that moment of feminine brilliance, I leaned right over and kissed you, leaving the mauve marks of two 16-year-old lips as a momento of the evening.
If you remember that night, you'll probably remember the one six months later when that same boy called to say that he "just wanted to be friends." I gently set the phone down, sitting on the counter again, but this time instead of brushing mascara onto my eyelashes, I watched as it ran down my cheeks in a stream of tears.
I knew I would be OK, but I couldn't help feeling lonely and dejected, and while I cried, you silently witnessed my first heartbreak.
What about the night that I impulsively dyed my hair? It didn't matter if the color had a slightly neon effect, or that my hair-dresser had informed me days earlier that box dyes would damage my hair for good. I grabbed my best friend and purchased a box of "Roasted Chestnut" color anyway, and when we returned, there you were, ready to observe the fun.
Twenty minutes later the hairdryer was out and the reflection you gave me revealed that the color on the box isn't always the color produced. My friend and I laughed our heads off.
You've seen the beginning and end of nearly every day of my life, but now it is time for me to leave you. Pretty soon I will be staring into the image of another mirror, probably in some tiny apartment, and chances are a few other roommates will be staring into its image as well.
You've probably noticed the stress in my face — people need to know test scores and grades, they want to see achievements and awards, and as I throw myself out into the world it is easy to view me as a portfolio, a list of accomplishments. But what I want to say is that no matter what this world sees me as, you have seen who I really am.
I am a young adult headed into college, but I am also a 7-year-old sweetheart with poofy bangs. I am a silly little girl who loves to climb on dirt hills, and I am a pre-teen who understands the pain of wearing braces. I am a confident, suit-wearing debater, and I am a young woman who puts lipstick on before each date. I am a heartbroken teen, and at the same time my heart is connected to people who love me even if my hair is neon.
You've imagined yourself as my bathroom mirror, and as the rest of the world demands to know who I am, I hope they'll see every reflection.
Biography
Micail Mann is a senior at Sky View High School and doesn't know where she wants to go to school next year or what she wants to do with the rest of her life. "I have too many ideas. It's a good thing I still have lots of time to decide," she says.
But one day she was looking in her mirror and began thinking about all that the mirror had seen over the years, and that became the subject of her winning story.
As she has been sending in college applications, "I realized how my life right now is summed up by test scores. Whenever you meet someone new, I think you should try to look past all that and see who they really are — like the mirror does."
Mann loves to write, she says, and does a lot in her school classes. She is also on the debate team and enjoys running — for sport, not for competition.
She is the daughter of Roger and Jill Mann, and has a younger sister and brother. The family lives in Hyde Park.
—Carma Wadley