By nine the mirror shop had hung a silk thread of pocket combs beside the looking glasses, each comb no bigger than a beetle's good manners.
We asked at the kiosk two doors down. "Mine nodded first," said a woman with a bag of plums. "Then it copied me. I felt properly introduced."
A reflection settles, takes the little comb, smooths whatever the night left rumpled, and only then agrees to be you. The glass, they say, is simply being polite.