A hairdresser
Plano, TX. Twenty twenty-five. October third.

Clients trust me with their heads. They sit in the chair, drape the cape, and give me permission to change how they look. But lately I don’t trust my own mirrors.

Yesterday a woman asked for a trim. Shoulder length, easy layers. I cut, I shaped, I angled the hand mirror so she could see the back. She nodded. Then she frowned. I asked what was wrong. She said nothing. But the reflection shook her head. Slowly. Deliberately.

I laughed it off. “Weird angle,” I said. She didn’t look convinced. Neither was I.

This morning a man came in for a fade. Routine, simple. He was nervous—job interview—so I kept the chatter light. When I spun him to face the mirror, I swear the reflection smirked. The real man sat stone-faced, chewing the inside of his cheek. The smile wasn’t his.

I started draping towels over the mirrors while I worked. Said it helped me concentrate. Clients joked about surprises, like a makeover show. But the glass didn’t like being covered. I could feel it. The way you know someone’s staring from across a room. Heat prickling the back of your neck.

End of day, I pulled the towels. The salon was empty. My own reflection stayed a heartbeat too long in the chair, like she wanted to try it out.

Scissors are sharp, but not against glass. I locked up with every mirror uncovered. Let them have the night.

A university student. 

Cambridge. Twenty twenty-five. October second.

I didn’t mention it at first—sounded like the sort of story people put online for clout. But it happened in the gents, brushing my teeth before lecture. My eyes blinked. The reflection blinked after, like it was playing along. I told myself I was knackered. Revision, too much caffeine. Easy excuse.

At lunch I checked again. Phone selfie looked fine. Mirror didn’t. Held our poses just a beat too long. When I tossed the paper towel, my reflection waited, then snapped to follow. I laughed too loud. Said my arm ached. Better to sound daft than scared.

That night I tried the steam test—breathed on the glass. Wiped a circle. Near the edge, a faint scratch. I touched it. Heard a click, like a jar lid loosening. Except it came from inside.

I jumped back, slammed into the dispenser. It kept cranking towels after I’d let go. The room stayed silent otherwise. Just me, the mirror, and the echo of that click in my teeth.

Later, I set up my phone. The video showed me, ordinary. But the mirror smiled wider—one tooth more than mine. When I raised a hand, he pressed his to the glass and left a smear, like breath.

I’ve draped a towel over it now. Told my mate I’ve got a migraine. He said, “Get off screens then,” which is funny, considering.

The towel feels thin. Too thin.

2025 October 1st

You remember the rules. Don’t look in a mirror in the dark. Don’t keep a cracked one. Don’t catch your sleeping face in a black screen at three a.m. You learned them from neighbors and grandmothers and the hush that follows a flicker in the hallway. You pretend you don’t believe them. You still keep them.

You tell yourself mirrors are tools—glass and paint, a way to check the collar, the curl, the lipstick you’ll swear isn’t too much. You lean in close until your breath fogs the surface and the world becomes you, then smaller than you, then only the small square where your mouth is. You say you’re adjusting. You are practicing.

Here’s what you don’t like to name: every practice is a rehearsal, and rehearsals are for performances.

You’ve felt the wrongness already. Not with your eyes—your stomach felt it first. A half-blink. A smile that held a beat too long. A tilt of the head that finished after you’d stopped caring. You laughed it off, because laughter is a bandage you keep in your pocket. Still, when you left the room, you kept your eyes on the doorway, not the glass. Just in case.

Listen closely. October sharpens edges. Screens and mirrors behave like siblings who made a pact you weren’t invited to. The silver behind the glass is not empty. It’s crowded with what you’ve taught it. Your hands hovering near your face. Your shoulder set against bad news. The way you pretend you’re fine, and then the way you really are.

You can keep the rules if they help: drape a towel, face the frame to the wall, speak to your reflection only in daylight. You can also break them to prove a point. Either way, the glass is patient. It’s been taking notes for years.

Before the month is out, you will see something you cannot explain. No thunderclap, no violins. An adjustment you didn’t make. A gesture you didn’t teach. A mouth forming your name without you.

When that happens, don’t argue with yourself about belief. You always believed. You were just waiting to be addressed.