Today

My story begins in the mirror. Well, three of them to be exact. There's one in the hallway, positioned at an ego-boosting angle that sheds a few pounds. If you abuse Instagram filters, it's the kind of thing for you. Ten steps into the bathroom will lead you to your worst nightmare, expose every flaw and make up a few, mirror. Best believe I avoid that one at all costs. Then finally, my bedroom mirror…propped at a flattering angle that still looks realistic, while managing to tell you the truth very gently.
My kind of girl. Though it's what's reflected in it that truly matters (Disclaimer: descriptions may contain bias) :
A girl of average height, average weight (refer to disclaimer). Let's talk about her eyes…that's what the musicians and poets care about right? Eyes that drown you, eyes that take you to the deep, deep blue. Mine don't take you to the ocean. A light brown I don't understand, they drag you to the cafè where your white neighbour can complain about the rooibos tea not being strong enough to dip your rusks. Those are my eyes, rooibos tea in a giant mug (a euphemism for big and brown ). My nose is used for breathing and I’m not sure what description you'd need beyond that. My skin is a catalogue for every brown girl in my country…seriously I’ve no idea what happens if one of us goes missing. Next goes my smile, which at level 1 is a small curve reserved for aunts and uncles and people that make me nervous (insert 90% of population here). Level 10 is a wide , chip-toothed, cheek-hurting, eye-twinkling , grinning monstrosity that illuminates the dark. Firmly reserved for deep laughter and people that make my heart glow. For you reader, a level four. Calm down, I don't even know you.
If you thought I would write a book as an African, living in Africa, and not mention my hair…you're forgiven. I spend every morning taming it with a comb, bristled brush, every hair product known to man, smiling to myself (level 18) as it flattens neatly and then stepping back to admire my skill. Now. I'm not sure what happens in the 15 seconds I head to the nightmare mirror in the bathroom, but after thorough investigation I've concluded it's something like this:
Myself: Wow. Guess I'm having a good hair day.
My hair: Challenge. Accepted.
No sir, my hair refuses to be tamed...an African halo that defies gravity, mocks my ponytail efforts with a rabbit tail. It's almost funny until someone in class can't see the notes. So we've compromised, my hair and I. I get to rule its shape and style, but texture is not to be messed with. I'm currently negotiating size rights, so I'll tell you how that goes.
My clothes don't quite deserve a description slot, they're to keep me warm and covered…not win me a ticket to the New York Fashion Week.
And that's how my day starts, a level 1 smile, winning my hair over and wearing a sweater. So it's how I'll start my story as well. If you're asking for the plot, I can't help you.
I'm here, right now. A level 10 smile, half the shine but twice the substance.
And that, is worth telling.