There’s something about twins . . .

I can’t hear the word without hearing Austin Powers from Gold Member excitedly saying, “twins, Basil, twins!” (referring to two Japanese school girls, Fook Yu and Fook Mi, names that, when spoken, elicit this response from Mr. Powers, also a favourite of mine , “you’re going the right way for a smacked bottom!”)

But seriously, there really is something about twins . . .

Twins, alter egos, doppelgangers. While I can’t imagine being a twin, (for some reason it makes me feel claustrophobic), and doppelgangers, traditionally, foreshadow your death, which I’m not ready for quite yet, I do feel both loved and shadowed by my alter ego: Charlotte Rose – the country singer I wish I was, repository for all my unrealized dreams and the shape things to (be)come.



But that’s the story I’m writing while in Berlin. The one I want to tell you now is this one:

So, I’m walking down the a street near my flat and I see her:



and I do a double take, because in some strange way, she looks like me (prettier, thinner, and far more graceful, but, still, I recognize myself).

Same street, different day, same window, and who is this?!



This is what I love about Berlin. I am pretty sure this is a doctor’s or dentist’s office, but why not add a little life to the sitting room, and then switch it up every few days? An embodiment of woman, a presence that might entice the outside world in . . .

As a lover of representation, I can’t help but feel my own life mirrored in these two mannequins. I am the brunette, of course, and the blond represents a number of my friends. I have been twinned by my hair-colour opposite for most of my cognizant life. I have no idea what it means, but I know I have a soft spot for my blond sisters who have defied the stereotypes in every way: they are smart as whips and steel traps, funny as hell, and very sexy, not Swedish nurse-sexy, far sexier than that! (Who can't be sexy in a pair of zebra-striped Birkenstocks??)



When reviewing the pics I took while two of my friends visited (both blondish, a third arriving Saturday, also blond), I realized the endless regression of mirrored selves in store/gallery windows were mirroring the endless regression of mirrored selves in my friendships.




Not my twins, since we do not look alike and don’t have the same DNA, and not my alter ego, since she is really a version of me, my friends are my un-doppelgangers – Jacline, Tonya, Lilly –mirrors of the very best parts of me, endlessly and tirelessly pulling me from my black depressions, from darkness into light. British Jackie made me laugh 24/7 when she was here. I’m talking laughing so hard I now have a six-pack stomach.



Then Severinne arrived and showed me what it’s like to confidently walk through the world and own your spirit!


Sophie will arrive Saturday, and although I have not seen her since grade 7, she has written me the most crunchy e-mails detailing her life’s hardships and how she overcame them, always generously offering me her unconditional support for my own depressions.

Lest you think my brunette and red-head friends – Abi, Elizabeth, Sara, Ann, Kim, Marney, and, god, SO MANY – have been wrongly left out of the picture, let me assure you that each and every hair on their colour-box heads is a strand for which I am grateful, as these women have also been vital to my survival and well-being. There is no hierarchy here. And, clearly, not all metaphors are have straightforward correspondences. This blond/brunette mirroring thing is complex. The tones and shades are endless. Maybe it’s more about the blondies having inner brunettes and vice versa. At the end of the day, what I am trying to say is that I have an embarrassment of women friends, and they are always visible, just on that side of a window, waiting patiently for me to make it to the other side.