Choices

THE CHOICE

The masks hung by their strings, their painted eyes had holes drilled
through the pupils, as if they had been blinded so that the wearer
could see. She reached for one at random and positioned it over the top
half of her face. Turning to the wall of mirrors, she saw a
man-about-town with top-hat, monocle and moustache. The mask looked at
her with her own incongruously feminine mouth and chin. The conflict of
gender disturbed her. The mask was only a piece of coloured cardboard,
but it had power to challenge her. She let go of the tapes behind her
head and the mask fell away. Now it was her own face that disconcerted
her. She stood irresolute before her own reflection and her face stared
back at her. The longer she examined her eyes, her brows, the curve of
her cheek, the line of her chin, the poise of her head upon her slender
neck, the less did she feel she had anything to do with the person she
saw in the mirror.

But she had to make a decision. She had been invited to a fancy dress
party, a modern masked ball. All she had to do was to choose a disguise
to hide her face, select a character and the costumier would fit her
out to suit the part. She turned away from the rows of male masks.
Being a woman was too important to her sense of identity for her to
abandon femininity. So she went to consider the female masks: old,
young, beautiful, ugly, white, black, brown, exotic, commonplace. These
women wore turbans, mobcaps, hats, bonnets, ringlets, curls, chignons,
combs, beads, pendants, ribbons, as their maker had thought appropriate
to each one. She was trembling, not with fear or nervousness, but with
excited anticipation. She searched for someone to try on. Here was an
elegant eighteenth century lady of fashion. As she tied the mask in
place, her back straightened and her chin tilted, her lips tightened in
a small grimace of disdain. She felt the gaze of an unseen crowd of
social inferiors. Her spine arched slightly, she was afraid. Her
heartbeat quickened and she gasped. She could hear the iron-rimmed
wheels on the cobblestones and the reverberating thud of the guillotine
as it struck its lowest point. Her shaking fingers loosened the
strings. Panic stricken, she removed the mask. She chose another: a
Victorian heroine, all gold curls and innocence, tight-laced stays
circled her waist and her lips parted in child-like wonder at the wide
world still out of her experience. She found it difficult to look at
her reflection. Inhibition and uncertainty possessed her. She longed
for her Mama and Papa to guide her. She stamped her foot pettishly.
This was not for her.

Perhaps this old, white-haired lady would be gentle to wear, with her
spectacles already in place around her eyes. But her fingers stiffened
and weariness bowed her shoulders. As she moved closer to the
looking-glass, her step was uneven. She could no longer breath easily
and she wanted to sit quiet and rest. She put away premature aging with
relief. A seductive gypsy girl caught her eye, a red carnation in her
dark tousled hair. Her hips swayed and she posed before the mirror and
stood, arms akimbo, shoulder back, defying all those who were not
travelling people and who might try to change her way of life.

She lost her sense of time exploring new identities. Ripples of
suppressed emotions and unknown responses were released in her, until
she was more intensely alive and aware than ever before. Yet in the
multiplicity of different masks she could not settle on one that really
pleased her. Then she reached for one that hung with its blank side
towards her. She tied it into place and walked towards the mirrored
wall. She looked curiously at the new face. She was easy with it,
collected and secure. The mask matched her own complexion perfectly, it
had the same colour hair and brows, the same contours as her own face.
She breathed deeply, relaxed and smiled.
The mask she wore was her own face, exactly as it appeared in real
life, but with a confident, decisive expression. She studied it, from
outside. She realised that it was herself, her true self and the only
disguise she would ever need.

She turned away from the reflection of the mask of herself and awoke
with a shock of surprise to the early light of morning, renewed.

? LINDY McNAUGHTON JORDAN, 2001 (756 words)