"Imagination comes of not having things"- Leroy Neiman

Take off the Mask

A familiar face sags and sighs in the mirror. A hand reaches out and picks up a tube of lipstick but instead of leaving a dark cloud of color, the lipstick is cleared back into the tube in dainty swipes, leaving clear and pure lips. Then back into the package it goes, perfectly sealed. The hands pick up the mascara and it becomes a magic wand, miraculously relieving the eyelashes from the burden of the heavy paste. They spring back up and flutter happy to be free. The hands did the same for the mascara and packaged it into its misleading case, protecting us from its damage. Guided by the hands a pen of eyeliner flies backwards over the thickly lined eyes, and like the windshield wiper of a car, pushes the restriction out of sight. My eyes are drawn to the fine powdered now floating in the air, like dust caught in the sunlight. The hands move the applicator back over to the eyes, and like a vacuum the strangling powder is sucked from the eye. Being safely trapped in its pallet, the eye shadow and eyeliner are packaged up together, a double threat happy to be rid of. Lastly, the stretched tight face is finally freed from the globs of foundation with swift brushes of fingertips. When the last drop of glue that held the mask together is contained, the bottle is packaged once and for all. The brightness of the fresh skin shone like a pearl in the meat of a clam. The uniqueness of its imperfections made it beautiful in a way the makeup couldn't.

 The girl the hands belonged two stares into the mirror, and then she turns seven. She giddily counts her freckles and squeals with pleasure when she has reached twenty. Years pass backwards and she is finding her feet for the first time, boggled to know that they are hers. Then there's only a strip of DNA, designed to be perfectly original, perfectly unique.