So I bought approx. 20 print books and 100 digital ones this summer. And I have to say...if I read about one more character looking in the mirror to describe themselves I will puke. All over the Internet. This has got to be not only the laziest writing ever, but also highly implausible. How often do you look in the mirror and notice your "tresses" (ugh, another word that should be banned from writers' vocabularies) or your bone structure or your eye colour? Like, maybe you'll think, "Christ, my hair looks like a rat's nest" or "Eek! Is that another grey hair??" but do you really think about the cut, texture, and style of it? SERIOUSLY?
Everything about this situation was so surreal. She considered the possibility she was dreaming within a coma again as she turned on the water for a quick shower. He had a good quality shampoo and conditioner--not surprising with his abundant, if ill-cut, hair--and a body wash that smelled vaguely familiar. He'd probably used it to wash off the blood from her wound last night. If this was a dream, it was the most richly detailed one she'd ever had. One she probably wouldn’t wake up from, assuming that it had started after she’d been shot.
She used his towels and stared at the dress he'd said she was supposed to wear. It looked on the hanger like a black scarf with bits of red tulle on it. Was he serious? Her mind drew a picture of his face, what she'd seen of it, complete with smirk. She sighed. When he had sat beside her, stroked her cheek, she'd felt... not attraction, things were too weird for that. Alarmed was a word that came to mind, but also reassured. She nodded into the mirror. He had a magnificent confidence that was reassuring, in spite of everything. He had, after all, practically kidnapped her... she caught her reflection, wrapped in thick towels and blowing her hair dry. Yeah, poor Carmen, so ill-used. "A gilded cage is still a cage," she muttered to her reflection.
She used his brush, seeing no other. It was clean, with only a few stray hairs caught in it. They looked and felt like any other human hair she'd seen. He had set out a new toothbrush for her, who else, and she used it, while rummaging through the drawers and cabinets of his bathroom. There was nothing there to suggest he had lots of female visitors, or indeed any. Yet she'd definitely got the impression he knew his way around women.
She pulled the dress on, like a body stocking. And that's how it fit -- if she'd had panties, she couldn't have worn them with this dress. A tuft of red tulle in the center of the neckline pretended to provide modesty, while calling attention to the cleavage it wasn't covering. She cracked the door. "Carabas? This isn't a dress -- it's a fetish outfit!"
She looked at herself in the mirror. It wasn't really that bad, though certainly nothing she'd ever worn before. A basic black strapless sheath dress in clingy jersey, it was the red ribbon and tulle accents that gave it a costume-y look. She wondered if he knew her shoe size, too.
See kids? That's what people do in front of mirrors.