Her eyes stared back at her own self, critical but not quite self-loathing, yet. The dark brown eyes laced with the barely discernible concentric circles, stared at her own face, judging, evaluating, assessing every inch of her own face.
They say that you are your own worst critic. She, Helen, has, off-late, become the living epitome of that statement.
Long gone are the days when she prided every inch of what she saw in the mirror. Over the years, the love and pride slipped away. Now, at 53, all she felt nothing but disdain at what she saw. She couldn’t fathom that her perfect skin gave way to the blemishes that she now witnessed. She felt a mix of resignation, shame, guilt, loss, and above all, unfairness at the image.
“Helene”, she heard Pierre calling her name.
She loved her name, Helen. She loved it for what it represented, that it was the name that launched a thousand ships. That simple snippet gave her some strength, some confidence, some self-assurance that she still had something in her, that not all is lost. She loved it even more when her French-born husband says it in his own French-ized American English way.
A smile crawled back on her lips. A few seconds ago, there was nothing in the mirror that she liked; now, she found at least two.