HOME | DD

Description
        A butterfly, dancing intricately with the wind, is beautiful. A flower, its vibrant stage, is beautiful. The girl watching the scene through her bedroom window is not beautiful. I am not beautiful, and I never will be. At one point I was gifted in music, but that time is gone now. When I would perform, it was the music that was remembered, not the musician. I was the girl who could blend in, even if she was having a screaming tantrum on the floor. But I wanted to be the girl that no one ignored. I wish that I was beautiful.

*

        When I was six, I would visit my Grandma's house every school holiday. I loved her house; it always smelt of freshly baked bread and there were so many rooms to explore. My favourite room was at the top of the Tudor style house, looking out over the expansive garden. From the octagon shaped window I could look out and see tranquillity. There was a dark blue pond, filled with life, all living in harmony as well as Oak, Willow and Birch trees swaying in the breeze. Often, birds from these trees would drink from the bird bath situated in one corner of the garden, lapping up the water as well as the sunlight that always seemed to occupy my Grandma's house. When I wasn't gazing out the window, my focus was turned to another feature of the room: the peach wall opposite the window had a display of five stunning Venetian masks. They ranged in colour from shocking red to plain white, and each one was decorated in its own unique way. My favourite was sky blue and was adorned with a selection of music notes. The almond eyes were lined with silver and in the middle of the forehead was a single, turquoise gem. Whenever I slept in that room I dreamt of wearing the mask, and parading through the house like I was the Queen. When I told my Grandma of these dreams however, she told me I must never wear any of the masks. I remember her words as if she stapled them to my brain. She warned me:

"However much you are tempted, however much you dream of it, you must never wear one of those masks. Remember this Alexandra: However good it looks, there is no such thing as a perfect life."

As a six year old, I didn't understand. But I promised her I would do as she said.

    Two months later, my Grandma passed away. She died peacefully in her sleep, but I was distraught. I loved my Grandma, and I'd always imagined that she would live forever. She left me the masks I had studied on every visit as a final gift to her only Granddaughter. I placed them on the wall opposite my mirror so that I could see them in the reflection as well as in real life. I scrutinised each mask, learning every curve, fleck of paint and symbol until I could picture each one in my head. The musical mask, especially, was playing on my mind. Finally, one autumn evening it became too much.

    As the setting sun cast its rays over the five ornaments I forgot my Grandma's warning. The blue, silver and black of the music mask looked so beautiful with the sun glinting off it, and my hands seemed to move on their own as I picked it off the wall, and brought it towards my face. It was a perfect fit. With no ribbon or elastic to keep it in place, I didn't expect the mask to stay in place, but when I dropped my hands, it stuck to my face. I turned around, ready to admire myself and the new addition to my face but when I looked into the mirror, what I saw shocked me more than anything I had seen before. Looking back at me was what I normally saw if I glanced into the mirror – pink leggings, a kitten t-shirt and my face, surrounded by a dark blonde bob. There was no sign of the mask. It was impossible – I could feel the mask fitted to my face but there was no sign of it in the mirror!  Terrified, my hands tried to wrench it off but it was stuck; stuck to my face as though I had applied it with super glue. I hoped that it would come loose over night but it didn't. I didn't even think about telling anyone about it.
Over the next few months, I realised that the practice I had been doing on my piano seemed to be paying off. I was getting better and better. In the space of a month I had gone from playing pieces from the 'Piano Time' book, to knowing Beethoven's 'Für Elise' by heart. As a primary school child, it was brilliant. At primary school, being an amazing musician was great. However, that changes when you move up to middle school.

       By this point, I had grown used to the feeling of the mask on my face and most of the time, I didn't even notice it. With all the music going on in my life, I hadn't noticed how withdrawn I'd become. I would spend most of my time in my bedroom, and I wouldn't go out with friends, or even speak to anyone. Eventually, it got to the point where I didn't have a single friend. This didn't bother me though, because the mask was my friend. It seemed to speak to me inside my head, telling me what to do. It happened in such a way, that I thought it was my idea – my thoughts. At middle school, I was the geeky one who spent all their time in the library or in music. I was the one that never spoke to anyone and was only seen in lessons. The mask was draining any personality out of me so I could concentrate on the music it wanted to make.

       As a year 8 girl, the pressure from the media and from other girls to fit in and to look good didn't escape my notice. I soon became bored of my musical talent, bored of the mask and began to notice the other girls that were at school and in magazines. They knew how to be 'cool'; how to look nice and how to be beautiful. Everything about the lives of the popular girls appealed to me. They were the girls that all the boys wanted to be with and the girls all the other girls wanted to be. They were perfect. My thoughts began to rebel against the mask and I started to be interested in make-up, and how to make my face attractive to others. Every night I tried out new ways to make me beautiful like the other girls, but nothing seemed to work. It was as though the mask was stopping me from looking like I wanted to. The mask had taken over my life and I was now at the point that I would do anything to get rid of it.

       In the Spring of Year 8 I started studying the masks again. Over the last seven years they had been ignored and their vivid colours had been dimmed by the build up of dust on their faces. Dusting them off, I felt like I was six again, but this time, I discovered something I hadn't seen before. Scrawled in an ancient hand on the back of every papier-mache mask were words. Each said something different. A lilac mask declared 'Artist', whereas the plain white whole face mask announced 'Author'. This intrigued me, and I wondered why I hadn't noticed this before in my examination of these artefacts, but I guessed that it was telling you what each mask would make you. Mine must have said 'Musician'.  When I saw the final mask, I didn't care that the one I was wearing had made me miserable, I didn't care about what my grandma had said, all those years ago. I didn't care, because this mask said: 'Beautiful'. I had to wear this mask. I had to be beautiful. Like then evening when my life had changed for the first time, the sun was shining through my window, highlighting the gold streaks in the mask. The shocking scarlet of the mask shone as my hands lifted it from the wall. I was transfixed by the swirling gold patterns laid onto the red. I raised the mask to my head, intent on wearing it over my current one, when the sky blue object fell from my face and onto the sea green carpet. For the second time in my life I felt the mask close onto my face and become my second skin. The full sized mirror on my wall picked up a change in my face this time. I stared at myself and saw someone beautiful. I didn't even recognise myself, but what I saw, I liked. I had what I wanted – I, like all the other girls, was beautiful.
     The change in my face constituted a change in my social status. I went from being a complete nobody, to being part of the 'popular' group. I couldn't believe it! I had what I wanted; with my masks, I had the power to be anything I wanted. The shallowness of the social groups played to my advantage – I looked good, so people liked me, it was as simple as that. I thought I had found the perfect mask. Where the other had made me unhappy, this one had no bad side. What I was forgetting, was that the depression had struck after a few years. This time it struck sooner. After about six months, the attention I was getting went to my head. Anyone who wasn't part of my friendship group wasn't worth my attention and anyone that didn't do what I wanted or didn't wear the things I thought they should, got bitched about by me. Within the same space of time that I had become popular, I became the girl that no one wanted to be associated with. My face couldn't save me this time, the mask that had once been my salvation, was making me say things I never would have dreamt of saying before. No one liked me, and yet again, I spent my time in the library.  I couldn't even go to music – as soon as the musical mask left me, all my musical talent disappeared. My Grandma was right:

"However good it seems, there is no such thing as a perfect life."

Description
        A butterfly, dancing intricately with the wind, is beautiful. A flower, its vibrant stage, is beautiful. The girl watching the scene through her bedroom window is not beautiful. I am not beautiful, and I never will be. At one point I was gifted in music, but that time is gone now. When I would perform, it was the music that was remembered, not the musician. I was the girl who could blend in, even if she was having a screaming tantrum on the floor. But I wanted to be the girl that no one ignored. I wish that I was beautiful.

*

        When I was six, I would visit my Grandma's house every school holiday. I loved her house; it always smelt of freshly baked bread and there were so many rooms to explore. My favourite room was at the top of the Tudor style house, looking out over the expansive garden. From the octagon shaped window I could look out and see tranquillity. There was a dark blue pond, filled with life, all living in harmony as well as Oak, Willow and Birch trees swaying in the breeze. Often, birds from these trees would drink from the bird bath situated in one corner of the garden, lapping up the water as well as the sunlight that always seemed to occupy my Grandma's house. When I wasn't gazing out the window, my focus was turned to another feature of the room: the peach wall opposite the window had a display of five stunning Venetian masks. They ranged in colour from shocking red to plain white, and each one was decorated in its own unique way. My favourite was sky blue and was adorned with a selection of music notes. The almond eyes were lined with silver and in the middle of the forehead was a single, turquoise gem. Whenever I slept in that room I dreamt of wearing the mask, and parading through the house like I was the Queen. When I told my Grandma of these dreams however, she told me I must never wear any of the masks. I remember her words as if she stapled them to my brain. She warned me:

"However much you are tempted, however much you dream of it, you must never wear one of those masks. Remember this Alexandra: However good it looks, there is no such thing as a perfect life."

As a six year old, I didn't understand. But I promised her I would do as she said.

    Two months later, my Grandma passed away. She died peacefully in her sleep, but I was distraught. I loved my Grandma, and I'd always imagined that she would live forever. She left me the masks I had studied on every visit as a final gift to her only Granddaughter. I placed them on the wall opposite my mirror so that I could see them in the reflection as well as in real life. I scrutinised each mask, learning every curve, fleck of paint and symbol until I could picture each one in my head. The musical mask, especially, was playing on my mind. Finally, one autumn evening it became too much.

    As the setting sun cast its rays over the five ornaments I forgot my Grandma's warning. The blue, silver and black of the music mask looked so beautiful with the sun glinting off it, and my hands seemed to move on their own as I picked it off the wall, and brought it towards my face. It was a perfect fit. With no ribbon or elastic to keep it in place, I didn't expect the mask to stay in place, but when I dropped my hands, it stuck to my face. I turned around, ready to admire myself and the new addition to my face but when I looked into the mirror, what I saw shocked me more than anything I had seen before. Looking back at me was what I normally saw if I glanced into the mirror – pink leggings, a kitten t-shirt and my face, surrounded by a dark blonde bob. There was no sign of the mask. It was impossible – I could feel the mask fitted to my face but there was no sign of it in the mirror!  Terrified, my hands tried to wrench it off but it was stuck; stuck to my face as though I had applied it with super glue. I hoped that it would come loose over night but it didn't. I didn't even think about telling anyone about it.
Over the next few months, I realised that the practice I had been doing on my piano seemed to be paying off. I was getting better and better. In the space of a month I had gone from playing pieces from the 'Piano Time' book, to knowing Beethoven's 'Für Elise' by heart. As a primary school child, it was brilliant. At primary school, being an amazing musician was great. However, that changes when you move up to middle school.

       By this point, I had grown used to the feeling of the mask on my face and most of the time, I didn't even notice it. With all the music going on in my life, I hadn't noticed how withdrawn I'd become. I would spend most of my time in my bedroom, and I wouldn't go out with friends, or even speak to anyone. Eventually, it got to the point where I didn't have a single friend. This didn't bother me though, because the mask was my friend. It seemed to speak to me inside my head, telling me what to do. It happened in such a way, that I thought it was my idea – my thoughts. At middle school, I was the geeky one who spent all their time in the library or in music. I was the one that never spoke to anyone and was only seen in lessons. The mask was draining any personality out of me so I could concentrate on the music it wanted to make.

       As a year 8 girl, the pressure from the media and from other girls to fit in and to look good didn't escape my notice. I soon became bored of my musical talent, bored of the mask and began to notice the other girls that were at school and in magazines. They knew how to be 'cool'; how to look nice and how to be beautiful. Everything about the lives of the popular girls appealed to me. They were the girls that all the boys wanted to be with and the girls all the other girls wanted to be. They were perfect. My thoughts began to rebel against the mask and I started to be interested in make-up, and how to make my face attractive to others. Every night I tried out new ways to make me beautiful like the other girls, but nothing seemed to work. It was as though the mask was stopping me from looking like I wanted to. The mask had taken over my life and I was now at the point that I would do anything to get rid of it.

       In the Spring of Year 8 I started studying the masks again. Over the last seven years they had been ignored and their vivid colours had been dimmed by the build up of dust on their faces. Dusting them off, I felt like I was six again, but this time, I discovered something I hadn't seen before. Scrawled in an ancient hand on the back of every papier-mache mask were words. Each said something different. A lilac mask declared 'Artist', whereas the plain white whole face mask announced 'Author'. This intrigued me, and I wondered why I hadn't noticed this before in my examination of these artefacts, but I guessed that it was telling you what each mask would make you. Mine must have said 'Musician'.  When I saw the final mask, I didn't care that the one I was wearing had made me miserable, I didn't care about what my grandma had said, all those years ago. I didn't care, because this mask said: 'Beautiful'. I had to wear this mask. I had to be beautiful. Like then evening when my life had changed for the first time, the sun was shining through my window, highlighting the gold streaks in the mask. The shocking scarlet of the mask shone as my hands lifted it from the wall. I was transfixed by the swirling gold patterns laid onto the red. I raised the mask to my head, intent on wearing it over my current one, when the sky blue object fell from my face and onto the sea green carpet. For the second time in my life I felt the mask close onto my face and become my second skin. The full sized mirror on my wall picked up a change in my face this time. I stared at myself and saw someone beautiful. I didn't even recognise myself, but what I saw, I liked. I had what I wanted – I, like all the other girls, was beautiful.
     The change in my face constituted a change in my social status. I went from being a complete nobody, to being part of the 'popular' group. I couldn't believe it! I had what I wanted; with my masks, I had the power to be anything I wanted. The shallowness of the social groups played to my advantage – I looked good, so people liked me, it was as simple as that. I thought I had found the perfect mask. Where the other had made me unhappy, this one had no bad side. What I was forgetting, was that the depression had struck after a few years. This time it struck sooner. After about six months, the attention I was getting went to my head. Anyone who wasn't part of my friendship group wasn't worth my attention and anyone that didn't do what I wanted or didn't wear the things I thought they should, got bitched about by me. Within the same space of time that I had become popular, I became the girl that no one wanted to be associated with. My face couldn't save me this time, the mask that had once been my salvation, was making me say things I never would have dreamt of saying before. No one liked me, and yet again, I spent my time in the library.  I couldn't even go to music – as soon as the musical mask left me, all my musical talent disappeared. My Grandma was right:

"However good it seems, there is no such thing as a perfect life."