She struggles to find her features in the mirror, squinting, bobbing and weaving in front of my bathroom sink. Her eyes betray her purposefully unkempt clothes, her defiantly undone hair, her barely-there makeup. Still, she is anxious to glimpse her appearance. I can’t help but smile at the bizarre dance between girl and mirror unfolding a few feet away.

She frowns, pretends not to care, and leaves the room. Aha! I saw that last, hopeful glance at the stubborn glass. A battle of wills is coming to a head. She returns a moment later, an ancient hairdryer in hand. After minutes of agonizing, patience-testing labor, there is a victor.

The mirror has yielded, a smug image of the victorious party stamped across the loser’s visage. She smiles, satisfied at last with her appearance. Those questions dancing through her head just a few moments before, that return to jitterbug behind her eyes every morning after her shower, have left for the day. She is confident, flips off the light.

But I see that last glance.