In the mirror, in my great self-pity, I looked like I was about 12 years old. My eyes were large and red, my face was pink from the cold and my hair, freshly washed from my stitches, was tousled and boyish. I wiped the tears off my face and for a moment relaxed the armor of irony about my ridiculous situation. I let myself feel very, very sorry for myself. I wanted my mom.