If you had met me six years ago, you would’ve found me to be an ordinary young woman where my vanities were concerned.

Whenever I passed by the mirror, my gaze assessed my reflection. I zeroed in on my physical flaws. The bump on my nose. My belly’s stubborn convexity that refused to disappear despite all of my crunches. My short legs. The list of my physical imperfections went on and on. When I felt charitable, I noted my more pleasing features: eyes with eyelashes that didn’t need mascara and hair that behaved reasonably well. Once my evaluation was over, I would check for any embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions, not always successfully. Then I traipsed off, assuring myself that I looked all right.

My attitude toward my personal appearance was casual, which was just an euphemism for unkempt and slightly shabby. I often went moths without a haircut, letting my bangs hang into my eyes. My makeup bag only came out under the most dire of circumstances, such as a job interview or a wedding. My clothes were reasonably on-trend, but never particularly well-fitting or coordinated. My only saving grace was my regular exercise habit, although that never quite got rid of the belly pudge.

Nobody lamented this state of affairs more than my mother. Hailing from Brazil, the land of supermodels and widespread plastic surgery, my mother found my lackadaisical self-grooming habits unfathomable. “You have such beautiful eyebrows, “ she always said as she came at me with a pair of tweezers. “I would love to have such eyebrows!” she sighed as she pointed at her sparse ones. There’s nothing wrong with looking good was my mother’s silent message, one I spurned.

I often grew sullen at suggestions that I spruce myself up, determined to rebuff any whiff of vanity in me. Somewhere along the way, I had begun to think of vanity as a slur of the highest order. To be vain was a horrible thing to be, something I wanted nothing to do with. This is perhaps why I took inordinate pride — vanity, even — in my careless, rumpled appearance.

A persistent blur appeared in my left eye, a rare manifestation of an eye condition I’ve had since birth. It grew, eventually spreading to my right eye, shrouding my visual world in a distorted fog. The image in the mirror became unfocused, my face turning into a collection of dark and light smears. My hair became a swath of a darkness that could’ve been black or dark brown or even purple. I wouldn’t have known the difference since I had lost my ability to differentiate colors of similar frequencies. My nose went from a bit prominent to a smudge of beige. My lips disappeared altogether. I can still glimpse bits of myself — an eye, a bit of a nose, the corner of my mouth — if I get really close. A piece at a time — that’s how I see myself now. The image in the mirror has grown so unrecognizable that I rarely bother looking anymore, staring off at space as I brush my teeth and comb my hair.

As the years pass, my last detailed visual memory of myself is increasingly out of date. Things have changed since I was a 27-year-old woman drawn and harried from the stress of having her central vision blur and fade all of a sudden. I’ve lost weight. My hairstyle has changed. Age is starting to make its mark. I can feel the beginnings of wrinkles around my eyes, which will surely deepen over time. Gray hairs will follow someday — if they haven’t already — and I will be none the wiser. The countless microscopic changes will continue to add up until one day, I will look starkly different from that 27-year-old I still remember. I will probably have no idea what that person looks like. Whether this is a good thing or not, I’m still not sure.

As I grow increasingly blurred and unrecognizable to myself, something elemental about my attitude towards my image changed. Once so indifferent to what I saw in the mirror, I found myself caring far more about what I couldn’t see. I began to get regular haircuts, even deigning to blow-dry my hair most mornings. Skin care was suddenly a priority as I diligently apply lotion and sunscreen everyday (but still no makeup). I became more serious about my diet and exercise regimen, finally achieving that elusive flat belly, an achievement that I had thought beyond me. A question that I had never uttered before became a refrain: How do I look? I began asking this with the utmost earnestness, always hoping for a honest response and rarely getting one.

Dressing myself became nerve-wracking. There were so many things to coordinate, match, and shop for. I never felt as if I looked decently attired, leave alone good. People would pat me on the shoulder and say that I looked all right when I asked them how I looked. All right suddenly seemed inadequate. So I abandoned any pretense of fashionability and empited my wardrobe. I started afresh with the most boring basic colors of black, navy, and gray, all of which are easily color-coordinated. My one concession to my sense of whimsy is my scarf collection from a bright orange silk wrap to a black-gray patterned wool scarf.

Me in my uniform: dark shirt and pants, gray cardigan, and a blue-green scarf.

On the rare occasion when someone compliments me on my looks, I find myself not knowing how to take it. Are they paying me a genuine (and kind) comment on my hard-earned good presentation? Or are they simply flattering me, trying to console me in some way? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I feel better. I feel stronger and healthier. I feel more confident that I am not committing an inadvertent fashion faux pas. If some of that shines though in my appearance, great. If not, well, we can’t all win at everything.

Now that I cannot look into the mirror and conclude that I look all right, I have to try harder. Those small vanities make me feel good, more confident, and happier. Being just a tiniest bit vain isn’t so bad, after all. It took me going blind to see that.