who needs complementary breakfast? i'll take a grande, low-fat mirror

In America it’s not only easy to know what you look like; I’d argue it’s nearly impossible not to have a clear concept of what you look like from any given angle at any given time. Think about it. You can roll out of bed each morning and look at your striking reflection in your bedroom mirror (assuming you A: have a striking reflection and B: don’t have an above-the-bed ceiling mirror…if you do own this eccentric 1980’s relic you probably A: also own a waterbed, B: are creepy and C: don’t actually need to get out of bed at all to check yourself out). After rolling out of bed you can make your way to the kitchen and catch your somewhat distorted yet wholly striking image in the toaster or a coffee spoon, enjoy your own company while you bathe thanks to your ingenious fog-proof shower mirror, steal a quick glance in your wall-sized bathroom mirror before you leave the house, watch yourself walk up to your strikingly shiny car in the strikingly shiny, mirror-like paint and flip down the visor mirror to get a good long look at your eyebrows (assuming you A: have eyebrows and B: are around 5’1”… if you’re taller you A: can probably see more than your eyebrows in a visor mirror and B: have no ride restrictions in case of an unexpected carnival).

Now try to imagine a place where, at least during rainy season, you’d be lucky to catch a glimpse of your reflection in a strikingly mosquito-laden puddle. Where each time you do see yourself in a real mirror, a.k.a. Satan’s moving picture window, you get confused and ask yourself ‘Who’s that white girl walking by and why doesn’t she do something about that hair?’

Having no clue what you look like isn’t purely a matter of vanity. It’s a genuine safety concern. I can’t count the number of times I’ve misjudged the amount of space I actually need to squeeze between two bumpers in crazy Kampala traffic jams simply because I haven’t been able to adequately study the dimensions of my hips in my eyebrow-sized, eyebrow-level bathroom mirror. Or I at least can’t count the number of times in the local language. Thankfully, in the midst of this humble Land of No Reflection there’s a magical oasis/hotel known as New City Annex where I can spend an embarrassing amount of time staring at myself in the complementary full-length mirror that accompanies each room. Of course by “embarrassing” I mean it should feel embarrassing. But the beauty of being laughed at and/or mocked every day just for existing, just for walking across the street to buy eggs or for sitting quietly on a bus is that you begin to forget what types of behavior you should legitimately be embarrassed by. And so I unabashedly stare. I’d probably attach it to the ceiling over my bed if I could, you know, merely for my future safety’s sake. Or else I’m an eccentric 1980’s relic.