Mirror Mirror On The Wall

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. Well, it was me, but not the usual me. There is something different today. The image in the broken mirror is less haggard than I am used to seeing, and I don't understand why. Could the stupid ritual somehow work?

Last night, after a bottle of cheap wine and hours of feeling sorry for my unattractive, single self, I did the most pathetic thing a drunk young woman can do: I googled "how to magically become beautiful." It was surprising how many results that search rendered, but the most intriguing was the headline: "This Ancient Magic Ritual Transforms Anybody From Ugly Duckling To Bombshell." Knowing how pitiful this made me, I started reading.

The article claimed that the ceremony, some witchy seance thing, was guaranteed to improve a person's appearance in days, even hours. It turned out I had handy most of the required elements to perform the strange act: chalk to draw a small pentagram; black candles, which I keep buying because they reflect my mood; roots and herbs that I happened to have in my pantry in hopes that I will one day learn how to cook exotic food; and even the required dead animal. I recall with disgust how it made sense to search my building's basement laundry rooms for mouse traps in my drunken haze, where I hit the jackpot: a desiccated critter was caught in one of the glue pads. I picked it up with a spatula, using it to complete my little macabre scene. The last part of the ritual called for a few drops of my blood, and I hesitated, thinking for a second that this was all a stupid idea. I went to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror, and said:

"Great. Now you not only look like a witch, but you also become one. Great job, you pathetic piece of shit."

With a yell, I punched the mirror, cracking it and cutting my hand. When I saw the blood, a fit of sobs took over. Ugly, pathetic, sad. That's me. I went back to sit in front of the stupid pentagram and let a few bloody drops fall over the disgusting witchy mix because why not. I might as well complete the transformation from haggard-looking to a real hag. After that, I passed out on the couch.

So here I am. Standing in front of the broken mirror that should be reflecting a hangover, worse-than-ever version of myself. And yet, I look better than I have in a long time. I almost look good. Is my hair less of a bird's nest today? I run my fingers through it, and I can swear that's all it takes for the usually messy tangles to fall down my shoulders in those elusive cascading waves I have dreamed of for years. I don't have time to dwell on it, though. My first client at the hair salon where I work will arrive in less than an hour, and she is one crazy bitch. Resentfully, I quickly get ready and head there.

I make it just in time to be ready before my bitchiest, wealthiest client Anastasia walks through the door. She's here for her weekly hair and makeup appointment, the one she keeps to maintain her impeccable Barbie doll look. That physical perfection got her the sugar daddy that now pays for everything. I hate her, and I want to be her. Anastasia treats everybody like shit, but she tips well, and if I were that beautiful, I would also look everyone down my nose. She barely says hello and goes back to look at her phone for the next hour while I take care of her spectacular golden locks. When I finish, we both look in the mirror, and I notice she looks very pale under her glossy hair.

"Are you ok?" I ask carefully. As expected, Anastasia huffs, like I have no reason to talk to her, and moves quickly to the makeup chair. When she finally leaves, I go to the register to pick up my tip.

"I think miss Anastasia may be sick," says the receptionist, Lorna. Then she looks at me.

"You, on the other hand, look amazing!" she adds in her usual chirpy tone.

"Thanks?" I answer, a bit disconcerted. No one ever has nice things to say about me, so it feels weird. My second appointment is already waiting, so I have no time to think over her words.

After a few more clients, my shift is finally over. Though I work in front of mirrors all day, I usually don't look at myself, but now I can't help it. My hair falls in perfect ringlets, my complexion is bright, and my eyes look big and bright, thick lashes framing them.

"Girl, what have you been doing? You look fab!" says Dhalia, the makeup artist. "Did you start a new skin regimen?"

"I gotta go," I say, grabbing my purse.

"Ok, but take care; it seems like a bug is going around. Did you notice some of the clients were looking ashen? Anyway, have a good weekend."

I grunt some response and run out. Yes, most of the clients I had today looked a bit sick. But I'm feeling great, better than I've had in ages.

I quickly make my way to O'Shea's, an Irish pub where happy hour is always great, especially when hockey players come to grab a beer. I go to the powder room first and finally take the time to look at my reflection. That woman in the mirror is frankly astonishing. Perfect hair, a great complexion that doesn't need makeup, and lashes for days. That voodoo shit really worked. What the hell? I start laughing, so excited I can barely contain the squeals of excitement that want to escape my now-plump lips. I apply some lipgloss and walk out there feeling like a queen.

I don't even reach the bar before a towering figure cuts in front of me. And holy fuck, it's Evan Dalton, captain of the rival city's hockey team and the best player in the league. He is also the hottest man I have ever seen.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Dalton asks, used to get any woman he wants.

I look around. Every girl in the bar is looking at us, waiting to see what happens. I cannot miss this opportunity. For once, I'm the queen bee.

"Do you have a minibar in your room?" is my reply.

Twenty minutes later, we are tangled on his bed, and he is worshipping me like a goddess.

"You are so fucking beautiful," he says over and over again. "You are the hottest woman I've ever seen."

Excited by that comment, I roll us on the bed to get on top because from here, I can look at myself in the mirror above the dresser, and I love what I see. Me. Beautiful me. Gorgeous, breathtaking me. Glorious me. For once in my life, I get naked quickly, encouraged by the admiring words of a hockey star. I move sensually on top of this hunk, and it seems like the more he tries to please me, the more beautiful I get. I'm so spectacular now that Evan fucking Dalton starts to look ordinary, his beauty paling by the minute next to mine.

After a couple of rounds, Evan falls asleep, apparently exhausted. I take the chance to go into the bathroom to continue looking at myself. My face and body are perfect, it's almost as if Evan's beauty was contagious, and I caught it all in my net. Then an idea brings me down from my reverie. If yesterday I was a hag and today I woke up a queen, I cannot know how I will look when I wake up tomorrow. Terrified of that thought, I gather my belongings and sneak out before he notices my absence.

In the morning, as soon as I wake up, I jump off the bed to look at my reflection. The broken mirror shows me a gorgeous woman. I smirk and practice posing and pouting, my new mean girl persona ready to take on the world. I won't return to that stupid, back-breaking job at the hair salon. This goddess will have no problem finding her own sugar daddy. All my issues are now in the past.

Feeling like a billion dollars, I make some coffee and sit to drink it while checking out the rest of the article about the beauty voodoo ritual that I did not finish reading yesterday in my hurry to get to the good stuff. I want to see if there are some more things I can do to be even more beautiful. The next part of the essay was a video interview with a woman that claimed to be a real priestess of the cult that created the ceremony. She speaks with a thick accent.

"This magic is not for the common person. It is very dangerous sorcery, and those who do it must be held responsible for the consequences. It is forbidden, and you are doing bad teaching people about it," she points a finger at the off-camera interviewer. "This is to drain the life force from others to make you pretty. Those that you touch, you drain. Like vampire"

I huff and slap close my laptop. Drain like a vampire—stupid woman. But a couple of conversations from yesterday pop up in my head.

"I think miss Anastasia may be sick."

"Seems like a bug is going around. Did you notice some of the clients were looking ashen?"

Images of yesterday's clients run through my head. Did all of them look sick? What did they look like when they came in? Did they all look ill only after I did their hair? I shake my head, not allowing that thought to take root. I grab my phone and thumb around to open Twitter to distract my racing mind. Cold runs down my spine as I see the trending headline.

"Hockey Star Evan Dalton Found Dead In His Hotel Room."

Before I start to panic, the doorbell rings. In a daze, I open the door and see my mother. Her eyes open wide, and a bright smile lights up her face.

"Sarah, sweetie, you look so beautiful," she says, wrapping her arms around me.