For years, Margaret had blamed the mirror for telling her a story she did not want to hear. At sixty-one, she noticed that her face looked increasingly tired, even after a good night’s sleep. The lines around her eyes seemed deeper, her complexion appeared dull, and the warmth she remembered from photographs of herself seemed to have disappeared. She blamed aging, then stress, then the harsh bathroom lighting. Never once did she suspect the clothes hanging behind her.<\/p>\n
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Her wardrobe was almost entirely made of the colors she considered timeless: jet black jackets, pure white blouses, muddy brown sweaters, deep purple dresses, and a few startlingly bright neon tops. One morning, while preparing for her granddaughter’s birthday celebration, Margaret put on her favorite black blouse and stopped in front of the mirror. Something about her reflection looked unusually severe. Her daughter Claire arrived minutes later, studied her silently, then disappeared into the bedroom. She returned carrying a cream sweater and held it beneath Margaret’s chin. Margaret looked into the mirror again\u2014and suddenly Claire whispered, \u201cMom, I think we’ve found the problem.\u201d<\/p>\n
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