She looks in the mirror and she doesn't see something beautiful. She doesn't see anything remarkable in her face, nothing commanding in her stance, nothing compelling in her eyes. She sees no blank canvas, no work of art, just the first draft of an under-developed idea, a "trial run"; she's the type of canvas that you throw away. Warrantless narcissism, the worst kind. She justifies her "self-studies" with lies; after all, mustn't one must first learn to understand one's own self before understanding the world? It's the sort of thing you tell yourself in your head, but you would never repeat out loud.

However:

Sometimes, this girl, she feels beautiful, like the sounds of symphonies. Her reflection in the mirror, unchanged. For it is not her figure; no, it is not her face that paints her pretty; it is the knowledge that a masterpiece could marvel at a mistake, the knowledge that someone so beautiful could love someone who had not yet grown into their own skin.