It was ten years ago, almost to the day. I was 38 and driving into our local village in France when I caught sight of myself in my rear view mirror. There was a criss-cross of wrinkles across my forehead and around my eyes.
In between my eyebrows there was a great big dip, which made me look permanently angry. My hair was streaked with grey. I felt that sort of pit-of-the-stomach horror you have when something hideous happens, like when you suddenly realise your handbag has been stolen.
But what had been stolen were my looks.
Of course, it hadn’t happened overnight, but I had been so busy raising five small children (two step-children and three of my own) that I hadn’t focused on myself for some time.
At the time, my smallest one was four and so at school in the mornings. I finally had time to look in the mirror. I tried to reason that the light was harsh, but there was no getting away from the fact that for the first time in my life I looked old.
In my teens, I worked as a model, and I’d always been happy with my appearance. It was natural, then, for me to try to find a remedy when it started to change. I wrote a book about it, which involved trying every anti-ageing technique I could find, from laughter yoga to Botox and face creams. Botox did help, as did hair dye, and I also learned a lot about the importance of diet and exercise.
Ten years on I still have the odd shock. Just the other day, a friend and I were discussing a man she knows who, at the age of 44, has just married a 22-year-old.
Rather depressingly it dawned on me that, given the choice, men of my generation probably don’t want anything to do with women my age. But, at the same time, I am a little more sanguine about the process.
My daughters are growing up into beautiful young women. My mother is 72 and still having fun. I am also beginning to realise that ageing is all about attitude. Of course, you have to look after yourself, but my hope is that if I don’t behave like an old person, I won’t look like one.
No comments:
Post a Comment