Mirror, mirror on the wall ... you know the rest. As I gaze at the harsh reality before me, my eyes focus only on the imperfect. Others may see a young girl of 17, just starting out in life, but what she sees is nothing to smile about. The process begins; she unlatches the cover of her makeup case and retrieves her tool of choice. Her task: to repair what can be repaired and cover up what can't. I often tire of this chore, staring at her day after day - sometimes all day.At first glance, she is anything but average. With coarse, untamed hair, large wide-set eyes, a bumpy nose and full lips, her features leave you pondering her heritage: Italian? Spanish, maybe? Truth be told, she is neither, though her heritage is not something she boasts about or confesses. With her fair to tan skin, she fits into a melting pot of cultures. Only her wiry hair and almond eyes reveal her African ancestry. Caught in a web of black and white, denied by both and accepted by few, she struggles on, perhaps by creating her own color, her own race, her own way of fitting in.Whatever she is, she cries, her tool box unable to fix the wounds that lay deep under the skin's surface, wounds which no medicine can reveal or heal. Her eyes, heavy with mascara, cry black tears that run quickly down her cheeks, smudging her makeup and revealing her true face. The mirror has spoken and she is depressed with the verdict.Unhappy, unsatisfied and unchanged, she gathers her tools and leaves the bathroom. I wish I could speak to her, scream at her! I wish I could tell her that beauty is only skin deep, that none of it matters, but she wouldn't believe me. She never does.- Sarah's bathroom mirror fl