I got my hair cut the other day. I looked in the mirror afterwards and the thing didn’t happen.
That thing, that guilty little tingle when you see how good you can look with a bit of effort. When you fancy yourself. When you’ve been feeling knackered for the past two months but one glance in the mirror tells you, with great relief, that you’ve still got it.
It didn’t happen because even though the hairdresser had done everything I asked her to do, I saw my own reflection and immediately thought, oh right, that really is my face then.
She goes on to make this excellent point about wrinkles–which I’m still ok with, but ask me again in 10 years–and the option of having time:
Having always liked older faces on other people, and thinking the best faces were the ones that looked like life had been lived in them, I understand now why people fear wrinkles. Wrinkles are a visible end to choices, to a life of infinite possibilities. They tell us that we have to make peace with the decisions we have made, or that we didn’t even realise we were making. They are a door that is closing on our own face. Which is why anti-ageing products, those little teases, sneak up to whisper to us that we can carry on dithering forever. Dithering is wonderful.