Mirror Mirror on the face.

The mirror. The mirror always showed his reflection, proved that light was still bouncing off of him and that it might enter someone's eye. He was observable even if no one was looking. It would never do for him to shout as he always spoke barely above a whisper, an ironic side effect of his fear of never being heard. And the cut of his clothing was along the same lines. There were no brightly colored prints hanging in his closet, no checkered shorts, or ripped blue jeans, there were grays and browns, blacks and whites, blues and greens, and two red shirts which he never wore.
The mirror. Standing before the mirror in the morning he looked at himself to make sure that there was nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary in the way that he looked, nothing that would cause people to stop and stare take a second glance remember his face and wonder about him long after they had walked past him. He made sure that his shirt was tucked in, but not too tight. That his fly wasn't down or a nose hair peeking out. He checked his hair to make sure that it had some style but not too much fearing that a bowl cut could be just as memorable as a mullet. He stared into his own eyes, scarrily similar to everyone else's in their failure to reflect the internal thoughts of what they saw.
The mirror. Reflecting everything the mirror thought nothing. It's true that if you got really close to a corena you could see your own convex face translucently staring back at you, but most of the light was taken in and reflected back and forth sometimes penetrating the brain where it was possible that it just might be part of some infinite reflection, never making it's way back out without being translated into something else: a word, a judgement, a look, a gesture.