Thinking About The Movie ‘The Mirror Has Two Faces’

Rose Morgan has been turned down by her own husband.

It wasn’t part of the agreement, fine, but she just couldn’t resist that natural urge. To have sex. She put on her black lingerie and laid candles all around the room just to set the mood. Greg was wearing a bathrobe and put the TV on. She had asked earlier that morning if they could have sex tonight. Greg choked on his coffee.

They had entered the relationship on one agreement: No sex. Just wholesome friendship. It was based on Greg’s theory that love could go beyond physical attraction and in doing so, creates a lasting relationship. The perfect marriage.

But he did not reciprocate her lust. It would ruin things--their rock-solid relationship built on mutual respect, understanding, and affection.

She kissed him on the mouth. His chest. Until they were both on the ground with Greg screaming, “No, no, no...”

He finally got her off him. And Rose stormed into the bathroom and sobbed, not once looking at Greg as he pleaded for her to understand.

What she did look at was the bathroom mirror. She had a nice-looking face. American-Jew, with a high, Nefertiti nose and a healthy complexion. Brown hair, chin-level with bangs. Still, she wasn’t her sister though. The head-turner, the one who took after Mom. The one who got every man looking at her the moment she entered a room.

Rose quickly covered the mirror.

END SCENE

There’s this bright overhead light above my bathroom sink. And it’s the perfect lighting to catch your reflection with. White, harsh, crisp.

My mother has the very same one in her bathroom. I remember watching her put makeup confidently with that light on. It made the whole room glow. I would briskly walk behind her, head down, to get whatever I needed from that room. I remember thinking how lovely my mom looked with or without makeup. She’s got fair, blue-toned skin. And her body’s so smooth all over without trying to be. Her nose is slim, unlike mine. Same goes for my dad, but he’s got the pointier, higher nose. He, too, has fair skin, which now looks bronze from all the sports he plays. Still blue-toned, though.

On the other hand, I’ve got fair, yellow-toned skin that slightly borders on morena. My nose is wide down the tip and my nostrils flare out a bit. Large pores. Blackheads scattered across my nose (been there for ages, can’t get them out for some reason). Eyes too close together. Used to have acne all over my chest and back.

For years, whenever I’d enter my bathroom, I never turned on that bright overhead light. Never even looked at myself in the goddamn mirror.

Greg met Rose through an ad he put in the papers. “Man looking for woman interested in companionship. Must be above 30, must have Ph.D.”

 

He had resolved to stop hooking up with women because being sexually attracted to them never worked out, and they never really connected. He didn’t want a girl with looks. So, from all the applicants, he chose Rose. Rose, the literature teacher--and in Columbia University, too, small world! Rose, the 30-plus-year-old woman who still lived with her mother and ate Snowballs and wafers which were stashed around her bedroom (and bathroom). Rose the intellectual, beloved by her students. Rose, the one with the witty humor. Rose, the one who loved watching baseball. Rose, the one who was never embarrassed by her love of food. The one with a precise way of cutting up her meals (which drove her mother mad). Rose, the one who fell in love with her friend Alex who ended up marrying her own sister Claire. Rose Morgan. Ph.D.

END SCENE

I’ve always been a go-getter. Academically and “professionally” at least. Always loved to excel, even in Kindergarten. It was always such a joy to get high grades, well, because I work so hard for them. They don’t come easy. I had always talked about this side of me. This perfectionism. To the point that my creative writing professor got so sick of the theme (I assume). One thing I believe I have never talked about is the fact that I use it as a blanket. Or a shield. If I’m not as good-looking as my other classmates, at least I have good grades. That’s something to be proud of. But come college--again, another theme that my prof is probably tired of--I grew weary of working my ass off. It had become so exhausting, and quite frankly, not fulfilling. I felt like a void that just kept expanding and I truly felt like I was about to burst. And I felt alone. So alone. Take that, compounded with the fact that guys just come up to me with questions on the latest homework. Yeah, what a time to be a woman.

  

Rose packed up her things and tiptoed out the door. The night had not gone as planned. Greg had passed out on the bed--the words “no sex” could have been plastered on his forehead.

She arrived at her mother’s place. The same apartment she grew up in with her sister, when their father was still alive. There’s this large mirror in the foyer and Rose, defeated, took a good look at herself in the mirror. Her mother, Hannah, was in the living room.

“I know. You’re going to say ‘I told you so.’”

Rose’s mother had said that she didn’t like Greg. She smirked.

“Why couldn’t you just wish me happiness? Is it because you’re jealous? Or is it because you can’t stand the thought of being alone?”

“I’m not jealous.”

Moments passed and Rose ventured a question: “What does it feel like, Mother?”

“What does what feel like?” Hannah said lifting a blonde brow.

“Being beautiful.”

END SCENE

I never thought there would come a time when my lack of good looks would get to me. But I started feeling the beginnings of it as early as grade school. My best friend at that time was fair, had long brown hair, and was admired for her disarming good looks. Naturally, I always walked beside her. And there I was: this gawky grade-schooler with acne, braces, and a clunky Coleman and lunchbox in tow. I heard later on that someone said “She looks like her yaya.” There was this other time when both of us were in the grade school drama club and I had been dying to get the lead role (as laughable as this sounds now). I tried so hard during auditions but my friend got the part. And I knew it was because she looked like a star. She consoled me when the results were out saying “I didn’t know how much it meant to you.” And I shrugged it off and tried to stop crying. Tried to be okay. Years later, in college, we would both visit the Days with the Lord weekend to “staff.” We both had different free times and I hated it whenever we were there at the same time. Because people wouldn’t talk to me when she was there and it made me feel invisible.

I have never told anyone this. And no, I was not jealous of her if it’s coming off that way. It was just always so hard to be beside someone perfect.

Rose’s mother did not get to sleep at all. She had been up thinking about the words Rose left her with: “Mom, remember when I was a kid and you would tell me to put my nose up with my finger so that it wouldn’t droop?” She couldn’t recall having done that and was appalled with the thought of it.

“You don’t say that to a woman my age. I’ve been up since last night,” she joked as Rose entered the kitchen, ready for breakfast with her beautiful mother.

“Growing up, I remember thinking how much my sister looked like you, and I looked like my father,” Rose said.

Hannah pulled up a photo and handed it to Rose. It was a picture of a little child.

“See,” Rose jested, “My sister was already so beautiful. Look at those eyes! Those lips!”

“That’s you,” Hannah said.

“Me?”

“I’ve never seen this photo before…” Rose continued in disbelief.

“You’re a pretty girl, Rose. Don’t you forget that.”

END SCENE

I never would have realized I wasn’t pretty if it weren’t for other people. Growing up (until this day), my dad would tell me about how I didn’t have a nose when I was born and that I still don’t have one now. Don’t smile so wide, your nose will flare. He said when I was around 12 years old. It’s too bad you didn’t get my nose, he always says. (Yes, father, it is too bad.) Even had a friend who pointed out my “button nose” and even commented on my back acne once. There were also the painfully awkward soirees where everyone enters thinking “I’m gonna talk to someone cute today and maybe he’ll like me.” That sort of teenage bullshit. Lo and behold, no one ever came up to me and I think all I did during soirees was sit around and make fun with my friends. A lot of awful outfits were also born because I “tried to look cute” in front of boys. Shopping at Topshop did not work. In college, no one ever talked to me or had any interest in me, so I’ve always thought I was unattractive, undesirable. That kind of mentality did not bode well all these years. I stay away from mirrors. I hid my acne with oversized clothes that didn’t photograph well. I look in selfies and family pictures from parties and zoom in to scrutinize my face, always thinking of the day I’d actually get to be pretty. If that ever were a possibility.

I didn’t want to bring up the makeover scene from the movie because it was so unexpected and kind of tacky. But it has to be said because I realized how necessary that scene was. So here goes:

 
Rose never returned Greg’s calls. He called every day, begging her to come back. She ignored every single one—well, at least her mom did because she answered the phone for her. Greg was in Europe for work and called long-distance, leaving his number whenever he traveled to another country. After months, he finally arrived back in Manhattan and contacted Rose. For the umpteenth time. He entered their apartment, not expecting to see her at all. But the dinner table was set up all fancy. The light was on in the kitchen. “I’ll be right out,” said a voice. It was her.

“I’ve been calling you. Why didn’t you return my calls? Where have you been?” he shouted not noticing her in the kitchen doorway. 

Finally, he turned to see Rose, all decked out in a black dress. She had shed a few pounds and dyed her hair blonde. She wore makeup and gold accessories that highlighted her skin tone. For Greg, it was riveting—unnerving, more accurately—to see his Rose, his “no-frills Rose” looking all sexed up. He didn’t understand why she needed to go through all that. Why she felt the need to “look like everyone else.”

But Rose did. And it felt wonderful.

END SCENE

  

People who know me know how much I love to be a non-conformist. I hate liking what other people like. I hate wearing what everyone else is wearing on Instagram. I hate blending in. It has always been part of my “shield.” Part of my unconscious efforts to assert my individuality given my lack of standard good looks. I love dressing up in oversized clothes because it makes me feel masculine and powerful. I love mixing random things to make my own budget couture because well, clothes have always served as a form of costume for me. A way to manifest whatever mood or character I was feeling. It was my safe space because I was good at dressing up and no one could take that away from me.

Fashion was my way to keep others out so they wouldn’t make me feel like an outcast--because I had already done that for them. But here’s something else I have never told anyone: I have always imagined what it would be like to dress as others dress. To flaunt my skin as others do. And to have boys look at you as they look at other pretty girls. I have realized that there is some power in that kind of sexuality, and I am trying to explore that part of myself. My skin is beginning to clear up. Body acne gone. (My nose has slightly improved from when I was in high school—apparently that does happen. Beauty editor told me.)

I know that putting on a backless dress or halter anything is still a form of costume, but at least it’s a step in the right direction. If Rose hadn’t discovered her sexuality, then perhaps she wouldn’t have made it work with Greg—not because she would still be “plain-looking” but because suppressing their attraction to each other hindered the growth of their relationship. Sexuality isn’t about looking vampy and caking on makeup. It’s embracing that fiery energy inside of you. That feminine energy that’s always been there, deep, deep down. It only needs to be unleashed. Perhaps it’s this energy that makes people attractive, because looks, as the movie tells us, isn’t everything. Besides, you can’t expect to attract people if you don’t give off the energy you wish to receive... Does sexuality work that way? I’ll find out.