Imagine that you are my bathroom mirror. You've been there for every change in my life, seeing a different view with each change.

You saw me before I was tall enough to see you. I stood on top of that little cream-colored stool so I could look into you and watch Mom doing my hair, observing the way she not only curled my bangs, but poofed them up to triple their original size. You witnessed the whining and frustration and occasional burned forehead, but through the tedious process you also witnessed the sweetness of a mom who cared about me enough to get up early and do my hair every day.

Do you remember that time when my family had a dirt hill in our back yard? Right before we began landscaping, my family was blessed with the most beautiful asset a home can possess — a giant mound of rich, dark soil. Every evening before bed, you observed as Mom and Dad turned on the shower faucet and waited for me to happily trot into the room, grimy and thoroughly satisfied. You knew me when a productive day meant 20 new mud pies, with the only concern on my mind being whether or not the pies would still be there in the morning.

Sorry to bring up past trauma, but I'm sure you still remember seventh grade. You and I were worst enemies. You saw the too-short haircut, the ill-fitting turtlenecks, the imperfect skin, and worst of all, the braces. Every single morning I had to trudge into the bathroom and look you in the face, and every single morning I hated you. For a while you were covered in hairspray residue — a result of my over-zealous attempts to achieve the perfect hair. That dip in my self-esteem was rough for both of us.

Luckily we got over that little phase. Once I figured out that no one really cared about my perfect ponytail, I regained my confidence. Speaking of which, do you recall the morning of my first debate tournament? I wore that incredibly professional suit, put on my glasses and felt highly intelligent. Rather than get queasy over the thought of speaking in front of my peers, I actually relished the chance to speak up. Instead of agonizing over my hair and make-up, I happily finished the job, turned out the lights, and left you without a second thought.

It was right before my first real date when you reflected me sitting on the counter, brushing mascara over my eyelashes, and humming "How Lovely to be a Woman." Mom stepped in, offering the truest symbol of motherly understanding — a lipstick tube. You watched as I excitedly and carefully applied the color to my lips, rubbing them together, feeling truly beautiful.