Reflections

It's like a bunch of snakes slithering around whenever my hair changes styles. Like now. I throw money on the counter, grab my bagel and skedaddle from the bakery, because I can feel my legs tingling. If I keep talking to the bakery clerk, they'll start growing. Guess he likes tall women.

Stupid New Year's wish. It's been one day, and I hate my body. Well, I've always hated it, but now I really do. Today, I've had more hair styles and body changes than I thought possible. And I've hated every single one.

I just want to get back to my office, shut the door, and hide until I can go home. I don't want to talk to anyone else today. At all.

"Polly?"

Except him. I'd stop for him on the way to the pearly gates.

I turn and my breath whooshes out of me as usual at his handsomeness. I know there's a God, because He made Paul Halloway. And he is perfect. We were together for a year, so I can verify that his wavy brown hair looks just as good whether he's just woken up or been skiing all day (mine is dead straight, mouse brown). Hungrily I eat up the sight of his brown eyes (mine are watery blue), straight nose (mine is knobby), chiselled jaw (my chin is 'cute' aka plain), his long, lean body (I'm medium and curvy). How I didn't combust in all my plainness next to his beauty is a mystery.

"Working today?"

"Yeah, just popped out for a bite. I'm working on something. Big case." I curse my stupid mouth. In front of a judge, I'm awesome. Ex-boyfriend? Porridge sounds better than me.

My lips start to morph. They're getting plumper. Paul notices too because he's staring at them.

"Did you get Botox?"

His eyes lower. Pop, pop. Instant D cup. Thank God I took my (perfectly reasonable B cup, thank you very much!) bra off at lunch. There might be a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. "You got that boob job I wanted."

My hips get smaller. Legs grow a couple inches. And my skin squeezes me, sucking in all over.

I stare at my reflection in the car behind Paul and watch my hair snake back out into long, lustrous waves.

Setting aside the extra inches and smaller hips, I see the 'me' Paul wanted if I'd had the Botox, liposuction, chemical peels, hair appointments, dental work, etc. he always pushed.

When I look back at him, he's sporting wood. The man who wouldn't turn on the lights during sex because he didn't want to see my curves. (Yeah, he actually said that.)

I've been such a moron.

"I need you to look at a contract, then we can go somewhere....private for dinner." He traces a finger over my collarbone.

And I want to snap his finger off.

Since he started dating me -which ended three years ago- he's always had me look over his business contracts. I'm a good lawyer. I charge big bucks for my expertise. Yet this tool has been getting it for free.

Mental head slap. Yup, I've been a moron. But not anymore.

"Sure, call Rita for an appointment. She'll open an account for you. Because you don't have one, do you?"

His eyes snap to mine, away from ogling my new rack, with recognition that his free ride just ended.

I wiggle my fingers at him (look at those talons!) and saunter away. I hate this body, but I'm going to rub his nose in it.

I round the corner and stop in front of a reflective door to answer my phone. "Mom!" She has radar.

"Honey, are you crying?"

Not yet, but I'm close. "No. Rough day, though. I'm having a hair-tastrophe. I really hate it."

"You have my hair, I understand. You have my everything actually. Remember that pixie cut you had in grade nine? Try that again." I do remember. I loved it. That's when I got asked on my first, and only, date in high school. A few moments of slithering snakes later, and I've got it back. "It set off your lovely cheekbones and really suited your face." My face morphs. There I am. I smile at myself. And she's right. The style suits me. I love it. I say goodbye, because I'm having a moment.

That pixie cut looked so good, I got scared. Because people noticed me in it. I've had long hair pulled into a boring bun ever since then.

I look at my clothes. Frumpy, even in this Barbie-body. But at the back of my closet, I have a magenta suit. It looks awesome on me. Well, on the real me. Who's a user like Paul to tell me how to look anyway? I stand up straighter. Who's anyone?

I'm the spitting image of my mom. She's not a waif by any means, but she's beautiful. If I think that of her, why don't I think that of myself? When did I start hating myself? And hiding?

"Polly?" It's Tyler from accounting. I feel my body start to morph. "You got a haircut. It's, wow, it's, I mean, you've always been beautiful, oh, I'm sorry, don't sue me for sexual harassment, it's just that haircut makes your eyes look super big, and they're such an amazing blue, and I'll just stop talking now." A flush creeps out of his collar and up over his face. My mouth is hanging open in shock. "I'll just go. Forget I said anything. Maybe forget I exist."

Say what? No one has ever said anything that nice to me. Ever. Say it again! "Wait!"

He turns, eyes down. "I've been wanting to ask you out dancing for forever. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? Giving me the biggest compliment ever? I'd love to go dancing."

He gives me a blazing smile. "Really?" Then rakes his eyes down my body. Crap. I look at my reflection. But it's MY reflection. Generous curves, knobby nose and all. The pixie cut stayed.