Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall Read online

  Skinny mirrors have haunted retail shoppers as an urban myth for decades, crystallized in our cultural history through an episode of Seinfeld in which Elaine buys an expensive dress at Barneys because she looked great in the store’s mirrors, but is then horrified to find out that the dress looks awful on her everywhere else. She becomes convinced that Barneys had used skinny mirrors to dupe her, and tries to return the dress, accusing the store of “false reflecting.” Cher Horowitz, the fashionista protagonist of the popular 1990s film Clueless, expressed similar skepticism about mirrors while choosing an outfit for an important date, explaining to her friend, “I don’t rely on mirrors, so I always take Polaroids!”

  Those who wish to see themselves skinnified (or who want their potential home buyers to do so) can buy their very own “The Skinny Mirror” for $69.95 from FunHouseMirrors.com, an online retailer that apparently specializes in false reflecting. The marketing copy for The Skinny Mirror reads: “This mirror . . . is known as: The convex mirror, The woman’s mirror, The diet mirror, The ‘Wow, I look good’ mirror and The ‘I will have that dessert’ mirror!” and guarantees that “the further you stand back the skinnier you get!” I found this mildly disturbing, thanks to the blatant sexism and the “I can eat dessert only if I’m skinny” attitude. But then I read the advertising copy for another product, called “The Fat Mirror,” which was basically touted as a weight-loss product. The Fat Mirror was described as “The ‘I shouldn’t have eaten that whole pie’ mirror, The ‘I think I should start exercising’ mirror, and The ‘What do [you] mean a large doesn’t fit’ mirror!” It sent shivers down my spine to imagine women buying The Fat Mirror in hopes that seeing themselves looking chubbier than reality would help them stick to extreme and unnecessary weight-loss measures. Why pay $69.95 for a distorted body image when you can get it for free just by turning on your TV or flipping through a few pages of Vogue?

  It’s easy to laugh at the idea of a conspiracy of “false reflecting” by the retail garment industry, but it may not be terribly far from the truth. After all, in addition to the blatant advice offered by the realtor I already mentioned, an entire subfield of “environmental psychology”—not to mention millions of dollars spent on market research—has toiled to understand the environmental conditions under which people will spend more money at retailers. These researchers examine how different types of lighting, scent, music, and other aspects of interior decor shape our buying habits. These are the folks who advised grocers to put milk and eggs in the back of your local Shop ’n Save. These are the folks who advised fast-food owners to paint their walls and logos in warm colors, such as red, orange, and yellow (colors that have been found to increase appetite), and to play loud music and offer only uncomfortable chairs (so customers eat faster and leave sooner). These are also the folks who advise casino owners to banish all clocks and windows, to keep fluorescent lights turned bright, and to provide free drinks while people gamble, so that we’re more likely to lose track of time (and money).

  To think that potential uses of mirrors would be ignored by retail strategists would be naive. Indeed, Forever 21 has been accused of using tilted mirrors, positioned such that a shopper’s head and shoulders look proportionally bigger than her stomach and hips, in order to increase clothing sales. Because Forever 21 gives only store credit for returned merchandise, shoppers have accused the company of intentionally creating the same type of “false reflections” sales that Elaine complained about on Seinfeld. I’d experienced these types of mirrors myself from time to time; in them, my head always looks a smidge big, and my legs appear lengthened. It can be disheartening to find out later that what you thought to be a flattering outfit is far from it.

  But this isn’t where mirror manipulations end. Taking a different approach entirely, Chico’s, a plus-size retailer, removes mirrors from its fitting rooms entirely, forcing customers to venture back onto the sales floor—and into the strategic hands of enthusiastic sales clerks—in order to see themselves in the garments. I remembered my first time trying on clothes without a mirror, at Ross. The bored sales associate who told me I looked “fine” might have missed out on an opportunity for a big sale! As Julia Roberts would say: Big mistake. Big. Huge! (I’ve always wanted to say that.)

  All this impromptu research about the ways that clothing retailers (and house sellers!) manipulate mirrors to trick customers into larger purchases made me feel almost relieved that I was currently immune to most of such trickery, and would be for another six months. Yet with several very special occasions looming in the upcoming days and weeks—including my bachelorette party, an engagement party, a bridal shower, my birthday, and my rehearsal dinner and wedding—I had retail on my mind. I wanted to shop. Even though I wouldn’t be able to see myself in mirrors for these events, I hoped that once my project was over I’d be able to look back at the photographs and feel satisfied with how I’d put myself together.

  • • •

  THE END OF THAT WEEK WAS THE KICKOFF OF MY BACHELORETTE party. A few hours before we were slated to begin, I traipsed off to a hair and makeup appointment with Sarah, the bachelorette hostess. Sarah and I have been close friends since the first week of graduate school, when we immediately clicked and soon ended up spending all of our free time (and homework time) hanging out. We’d spent a year as roommates, played on the same dodgeball team, and always “got” each other when life threw us curveballs. We’d been friends long enough to have a few “us” things, including a favorite Dave Matthews song, a favorite mouthwateringly sexy men’s cologne (which both of our husbands now wear), and a love for going to get our makeup and hair professionally done together before big events, like birthdays and, now, my bachelorette party. It felt funny to realize that I was getting my makeup professionally done for my bachelorette party and not my wedding, but I couldn’t resist enjoying something that had become a tradition for Sarah and me. Besides, she treated!

  At the salon, I asked my hair stylist and makeup artist to go “Miss Piggy” on me, requesting bouncy curls and big lashes. It felt odd to be so fully styled without mirrors, but I watched Sarah being beautified across the way and figured that if I looked half as great, I’d be in pretty good shape for an evening of debaucherous girl time.

  From there, Sarah and I headed back over to her place to join the other women getting ready. I brought several party-dress options; I wanted to gather my friends’ opinions before choosing (trust! Huzzah!). Both Hanna and my friend Lisa (who, like Hanna, is extremely low-maintenance) were accosted by the rest of us, and Sarah and I enthusiastically chose their outfits, styled their hair, and applied their makeup; it felt like the cool-girl slumber party I’d never been invited to in middle school. In true little-sis style, Hanna ended up wearing the slinky dress I’d found at Nordstrom Rack. I opted for an even slinkier one I’d bought at Ross a few months prior for twenty bucks. It was bright blue with black trim, super short, and had cutouts at the waist and back. Paired with my favorite sky-high leopard-print stilettos and a bright pink tiara (a gift from my friends, to be paired with an embarrassingly bright pink feather boa), I felt adequately coquettish and ridiculous.

  Once ready, we took cabs to a restaurant in West Hollywood, a self-proclaimed “Birthday and Bachelorette Party Headquarters” that was famous for a weekend drag queen burlesque show. I was looking forward to really letting loose with my girls, and the bawdy and colorful show didn’t disappoint. The cocktails started flowing and we were soon hootin’ and hollerin’ through several boisterous acts by a set of incredibly talented and glamorous performers. It was turning into a perfect girls’ night out. (Note to any bachelorette party organizers who are feeling inspired by this story: Unless the gay club you’re considering has specifically identified itself as a “Bachelorette Party Headquarters,” don’t go there; it’s obnoxious to flaunt girlie wedding bullshit in front of folks who, at the time of this writing, do not yet have marriage equality nationwide. An exception can be ma
de if there are two brides, and they’re marrying each other.)

  Just before the last act, the MC called out to the audience, asking whether anyone was celebrating anything that evening. Apparently, every table in the house was celebrating some sort of event, as the entire restaurant suddenly began screaming and squealing. I found myself being pushed and pulled up onto the stage, along with a few more brides-to-be and birthday girls. Once we’d been introduced by the MC, it was announced that we were about to compete with one another in a “booty-shaking” contest. Gulp.

  The rules were simple: Each contestant would take the stage for thirty seconds apiece to “shake her booty” along to the MC’s choice of cheesy pop music. I knew I was moments away from feeling completely ridiculous, and possibly embarrassed, but the energy in the room was contagious. (Frankly, if the crowd had included a lot of heterosexual men I probably would have declined; nothing creeps me out more than being leered at by sloppy drunk men, which is exactly why I’d requested this venue for the party; the only men in the place were in drag, and they’d already strutted their stuff on stage.)

  I watched the first two contestants bump and jiggle their way through choppy clips of Christina Aguilera’s “Dirty” and Britney Spears’s “Toxic.” I was frankly impressed and intimidated by their moves, and glad I hadn’t been first. (I later learned that the second contestant was actually a well-known adult film actress, which may explain some of her excellent performative skills.) I was relieved to see that the crowd was friendly and seemed to be rewarding enthusiasm over skill.

  While watching the other contestants, I had a few moments to strategize, and also took a second to say a prayer of thanks that I’d chosen to wear a modest (i.e., very full coverage!) pair of undies under my short party dress. And then it was my turn.

  LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” started thumping from the speakers, and I began dancing while my closest friends shrieked and screamed. I attempted my signature chicken dance and booty shake move, swung around the stripper pole once, and finished with a classic “drop it low” move (followed by a painfully geriatric attempt to “bring it back up” whilst wearing stilettos). For the first time in my life, I was glad to see a stripper pole; without it I would have fallen on my ass. It was exhilarating and scary at the same time.

  I felt the vibrating thump of the bass below my feet and heard my friends cheering me on. Thirty seconds felt longer, and I remember having flashbacks to times in high school when I’d practiced “dancing sexy” in front of the mirror in my bedroom. Back then I’d self-consciously admired my body while practicing what I thought sexual confidence ought to look like. This time, in the surprisingly safe space of a drag queen burlesque show, I experienced a taste of what sexual confidence felt like. My memory of a table crowded with highly educated avowed feminists screaming their lungs out to encourage their friend’s booty dance, well . . . that vision will stay with me forever.

  Thanks to my friends’ loud cheering, I actually won the contest! It turned out that the prize was awarded based on the crowd’s enthusiasm, rather than on our dancing talent (though I’d like to think that my chicken dance had something to do with it!). My table had the most—and the loudest—people, so it was quite a coup. The adult film actress looked pissed, but I didn’t care.

  As the evening wound down, I found myself thinking that I felt completely beautiful. I’d had no idea what I looked like, but hadn’t spent the night wondering or worrying about it. Instead, I’d unself-consciously enjoyed myself in the moment, feeling comfortable, excited, and in good company. I’d spent the entire day feeling utterly connected to my girlfriends and sister, and this made me feel deliriously happy and lucky. This feeling of connectedness, along with the bodily confidence I’d surprised myself with during my thirty seconds of booty-dancing fame, made me wonder what it meant to feel beautiful. It wasn’t a concept I could easily articulate or analyze in my inebriated state, but I knew I wouldn’t forget the feeling. The next time I feel like this I’m going to figure it out. I need a recipe for this feeling! I promised myself. Next time.

  • • •

  THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE UP WITH A HANGOVER. I DID NOT feel beautiful; I felt like barfing. This shouldn’t have surprised me considering the prior night’s libations. I wanted to bury myself back into bed and hibernate indefinitely, but I needed to spend a few more hours with Hanna and Laila, who had traveled by plane to be at the party. Fighting nausea and a not-so-mild headache, I put on my best “I’m in horrible pain” face and asked my friends, “So . . . how’s everyone else feeling this morning?” I was hoping for a unanimous declaration that we should stay in bed and watch HGTV.

  Of course, everyone else felt just fine. I’ll be all right, I thought. I’ll just tough it out for the next six hours and rest after I drop everyone off at the airport. What’s the worst that could happen?

  “So . . . how do you guys want to spend your last afternoon in Los Angeles?” I asked. We decided to drive to Santa Monica to combine two fun things: shopping and beaching. We showered, dressed, and hit the road. It was a fifteen-minute drive, but we made an early stop to get breakfast. The prospect of solid food made me feel queasy, so we settled on smoothies. With a sixteen-ounce Orange Carrot Karma in hand, I began to feel better. I had renewed confidence in my ability to enjoy the next few hours. Onward!

  My only request for the day had been that we visit Sephora so I could have help picking out some wedding-day makeup. On my Bridal Beauty Countdown to Gorgeous list was the instruction to “Meet with your makeup artist for a trial run. If you’re not hiring a pro, get a makeover at a department store counter and purchase anything you need now (so you have time to practice).” I figured having my sister and close girlfriend in town and at my bridal disposal presented a unique opportunity to experiment a bit with makeup under the watchful eyes of two people whose taste I respected and who would also be physically present at my wedding to help replicate any makeover tips we gleaned from the pros. I figured I should get a long-wearing foundation and maybe some waterproof eyeliner.

  Sephora has been a favorite shopping spot of mine for years, but I hadn’t been in one for months. After all, it’s basically a maze of mirrors wherever you look. I hadn’t felt up to the challenge so had been avoiding the store, but the clock was ticking for me to take care of my makeup plans for the wedding.

  The minutes after our arrival are a painful blur in my memory, but what I recall most clearly is being affronted by the overwhelming and overpowering scent of what seemed like a gazillion-billion perfumes and colognes. Walking into Sephora, I felt as though I’d mistakenly boarded an elevator filled with fifty great-aunts who had bathed in Chanel No. 5, Shalimar by Guerlain, and Opium by Yves Saint Laurent. My nausea returned and threatened to become vertigo. You can do this! I told myself. You LOVE Sephora! I was determined to make it through.

  I swallowed a gulp of fresh air and marched in, breathing through my mouth. I found a sales associate whose makeup didn’t look too ridiculous and announced, “I’m getting married in three weeks and I need help picking out a foundation to wear on my wedding day!”

  She smiled widely, revealing lipstick-stained teeth (yikes!), and said, “Oh, congratulations! Let me show you some products I like.” I followed behind her as she headed toward a makeup display. We must have walked past eight or nine mirrors on the way. I tried to ignore anything shiny in my peripheral vision, but it was still impossible to avoid all of the mirrors. I’d glimpse one and look away, only to find myself facing yet another one, having to look away again. It was dizzying. I forced myself to stare straight ahead, like a carriage horse wearing blinders.

  With my imaginary blinders up, I didn’t notice that both Hanna and Laila had meandered off onto their own paths. Suddenly it was just me, the saleswoman, and a store full of mirrors. Gulp. We arrived at our destination, and the saleswoman reached for a few bottles of something that looked outrageously expensive.


  “Here, I’m just going to color-test you. Hold on one second,” she said, as she delicately dabbed a bit of foundation onto the back of her hand. There were two colors, indiscernible to me, but apparently one had “cool undertones” while the other was “neutral.” It occurred to me that I hadn’t explained to this woman that I wasn’t going to be able to look at myself in the mirror. Shit. I felt my pulse increase and couldn’t bring myself to speak. The room felt oddly overheated, and the back of my neck went clammy.

  I stayed perfectly still as the sales associate delicately brushed a line of each of the foundations onto my cheek. The lines of liquid foundation felt blissfully cool compared with the feeling of my reddening cheeks. Say something! I thought. Now! My eyes darted from side to side, hoping to catch a glimpse of Hanna or Laila. No such luck. But then my luck really ran out.

  “Oh, you definitely have cool undertones,” she said, as she reached for a handheld mirror. “Here, let me show you . . .”

  As I cleared my throat to protest, I felt my stomach lurch. The room went blurry, and I knew it was too late to explain. Bile rose in my throat.

  Don’tpukeinSephoradon’pukeinSephoradon’tpukeinSephora! OMGOMGOMG! I screamed silently to myself as I ran out of the store, hand covering my mouth.

  I felt fresh air hit my face the moment I passed the entrance, but the relief was temporary; there was nothing I could do to stop what was happening.

  I saw a large trash bin on the sidewalk a few dozen yards away and broke into an awkward sprint, my hands covering my mouth as though they could levee the oncoming flood. A few feet from the garbage, it started. Vomit. But it wasn’t just any vomit. Bright Orange Carrot NOT-SO-Karma smoothie spewed from my mouth, spurting through my fingers. To my increased horror, once I finally reached the garbage, I saw that it was topped with some kind of roof thingy, so I had to wedge my head sideways in an attempt to aim. It was impossible; orange puke was everywhere, running down the garbage and all over the ground.