The Boy in the Mirror

I am sixteen years old.

I go to high school, and I do well. Even though it sounds really nerdy to most people, math is definitely my favorite subject. I love how there's always an answer that can't be argued. No one can argue that 2+2 is anything except four. And I like that. There's always an answer.

I've learned that this is not the case with other aspects of my life.

I came home from school one day, and, on my way to the kitchen for a little after-school snack, I walked past the mirror, just like I do every day. But today, it was different. Today, I saw my buzz-cut hair and my peach fuzz lip and my almost-stubbly chin, my Adam's apple and square-cut jaw, my gangly frame (they call me a tree) and my hairy knees (only noticeable because of my pale, pale skin). Today in the mirror, I saw a stranger.

It's funny, because I've walked past that mirror a thousand times. And each time, I think "that's me". And it is. It's a sixteen year old boy in the mirror. That's me; that's the answer.

But today, I saw that buzz-cut hair and wished it could be straightened and adorned with a bow.

Today, I saw the stubbly chin, and wished for a face smoothed by makeup and colored with cosmetics.

Today, I saw my square jaw, and wished, more than anything in the world, that it was round and soft and feminine.

Today, I saw a stranger in the mirror. One that didn't match my insides, that didn't match my heart. And I realized that maybe gender isn't a math problem. Maybe there isn't always a right answer...

But isn't it sad to look in the mirror, and to not see who you are inside?