She was neither fake nor vain; she could not understand why other women crowded in shops looking for the perfect dress or the most exquisite necklace, and how they enjoyed their dreams at night when all they could see were their pretentious bodies bathed in gold. She was grateful though – the more women there are in beauty shops, the less there are in the dusty bookstores where she found the most exquisite and perfect stories that conjure her technicolor dreams at night.
The wicked, wart-ful Witch of Winkleton cast a spell on the very vain, very self-conscious Vivian, so that every time young Vivian looked in the mirror she saw the face of a ferocious, fly-infested fox. She’d ask her friends again and again, “Does my face look like a fox?” and they always said no, so that eventually she didn’t ask and she didn’t bother looking in the mirror and so that eventually, she didn’t even worry about what she looked like anymore.
I went to the mirror to look at myself. I didn’t see my reflection.