THE MIRROR

The bathroom light snaps on.  Bounding in, the preschooler reaches for his toothbrush and squeezes an overly generous amount of toothpaste on it.  Brushing vigorously for ten seconds, he grins at the mirror, spits toothpaste into the sink, throws the brush down on the counter and grins at the mirror again.  “Hurry up!” yells the teenager from the hallway.  The preschooler exits, and the teenager enters.  Peering at the mirror, he anxiously examines his newest outbreak of acne and dabs some alcohol on it.  “Hopeless!”  he mutters and hurries out, pulling on a tee shirt  as he passes by his father impatiently waiting at the doorway.  Dad strides in, picks up his razor and shaves methodically, then buttons up his shirt and carefully knots his tie.  One last quick inspection of his reflection in the mirror, and he is off to work.  Gramps pokes his head into the bathroom to make sure he’s not interrupting anyone else, and then enters to do his business.  Looking into the mirror, he runs fingers through his thinning hair and mutters “oh well, who cares?”  The light snaps off.  The mirror has done its job, for this morning at least.