Mirrors have never held much fascination for me, perhaps because being in the bathroom usually involves quantities of water, and that in turn involves not wearing my glasses. At which point I can’t see as far as the end of my nose: the utility of a reflecting surface a few feet away is thus moot.
I’ve compensated for this admittedly unusual foible by developing spectacular skill at shaving by feel alone — on average I only fill the sink with blood once a week, now — and I’m far better at tying ties with my eyes shut than with some insane lunatic standing opposite me doing it the wrong way around.
Or at least, the above is what I’ve thought for the last eight years or so. It turns out that I must have had mirrors in my previous flats, since I find the curious lack of mirrors here in Glasgow irksome. Both mirrors lurk in the bathroom, one safely but inexplicably above head-height, and both are steamed up for the entire period between showering and leaving the flat.
Wiping the droplets away, I’m invariably greeted by an horrific apparition, his hair lurching across to one side at some insane and improbable angle. For a while I assumed this was because I’m rubbish at getting my hair shorn, but no — as I write, it’s short, and it’s still making a bid for freedom. The only rational conclusion is that, in previous dwellings, I must have sorted the unruly mop while it was still wet.
But that would require having had mirrors extra-bathroomia, as it were. Mirrors I do not recall ever possessing.
I do like starting the day with a good mystery.
Currently playing in iTunes: Erase-Rewind by Cardigans