Marie Taylor, Ink

It started out as a friendly discussion about plastic surgery – rhinoplasty in particular. The Youngest Daughter of the family had just returned from a trip overseas to visit relatives and was reporting on the various family members – feminine – who had their noses done – clipped.

The straight and strong family nose with the aristocratic arch had been snipped and shaped into a turned-up, Barbie-doll dot. The consensus around the breakfast table was that noses, unless extremely large or especially off-putting, should be left as nature intended.

With that subject exhausted, the Elder Daughter, who had been carefully examining her own face in a hand mirror, decried the fact that her front teeth were too big. “It’s your fault, mom,” she asserted as she rearranged a glistening black curl on her cheek.

Mother, who had largish front teeth with a slight overbite, said, “There’s nothing wrong with my teeth. They look cute!”

“They’re too big. They’re gopher teeth,” said Elder Daughter with a fashion-savvy sniff, holding the mirror this way and that way to better study her profile.

“Are you saying I look like a gopher,” shot back Mother, her eyes narrowing.

“Do you want the truth?” queried Elder Daughter.

“Yes. I think my teeth are cute,” said Mother.

I began to squirm. Truth always affects me that way. I stole an appraising look at Mother. Not a gopher, but perhaps just the slightest bit rabbity. Rabbity’s not as bad as gopher. Or is it? My hands grew clammy as the tension heightened.

Younger Daughter, not wanting to be left out of the conversation, patiently explained, “They look cute on you, Mom.”

The Truth with all its implications was out. Mother glowered and Younger Daughter, sensing a shift in the wind, tried to back-peddle out of the suddenly dangerous territory.

In an effort to diffuse the situation, Elder Daughter said in a offhand manner, “Yes, they’re okay on you because you have a big head.”

An audibe gasp inadvertently issued from my lips.

Younger Daughter, seeing an opening and possible redemption, shot an accusatory glance at her sister. “Mom thought she looked beautiful until you said she looked like a gopher.”

Before Elder Daughter could retort, Mother declared, with a confidence I could but admire, “I AM beautiful.” Bosom up, head back and nose arched, she left the table and the two children who bore her overbite.

And that is the real gist of it, I thought, as I made my getaway. Beauty is not only in the eyes of the beholder but in the mind of the observed. When we look at ourselves, we see what we have programmed our minds to see.

For instance, when we have pimple on our nose and look in the mirror, all that we see is the pimple. When we stand in front of the full-length mirror, we don’t see our smile, we see those extra helpings of mashed potatoes.

But it wasn’t always like this, I reflected. Years ago, there were no mirrors in convents. Nuns wore long veils and wimples and never knew what they looked like. No doubt, that helped them to keep their minds on God rather than on makeup.

As a result, their faces had a clean simplicity which allowed their souls to shine through. Nowadays, nuns wear skirts and blouses, drive cars, hold jobs and have their hair permed. They finally got the right to look as bad and to be as insecure as the rest of us.

Just think, if we didn’t have mirrors, we could be as beautiful as we wanted to be. Someone might say, “Gee, you look good today.” The appropriate response might bem “No. I look beautiful!”