You’re getting older. Deal with it.
A non-Botox solution to erase the signs of aging (true story)
I’m starting to look like my passport picture. Lines and wrinkles I used to blame on the quality of the photograph are now a permanent aspect of my facial landscape.
Aging didn’t bother me while it was happening to someone else. It seemed such a long way off. Surely by the time it happened to me, medical science would have found a cure. Unfortunately, they were no more successful than Ponce de Leon’s mythical quest for the Fountain of Youth. Now on the wrong side of fifty and in need of a profile picture to hide the fact that I belong to the pre-SPF30 generation, I’ve only one place to turn for relief from the pressure: cosmetics.
I decided to avail myself of the many advancements in “age-defying” skin care products. After watching several YouTube videos on applying makeup for older women, I armed myself with a list of tools I would need to minimize and disguise spots, sags, bags and wrinkles before heading to the nearest department store.
My research had not prepared me for the vast selection of jars and bottles bearing names that gave no hint as to the purpose of their contents. I walked from one cosmetics counter to the next, clueless as to what I should buy. Finally, I sought the expert advice of a sales clerk sporting a white lab coat.
“I’m going on a photo shoot,” I said. “I need makeup that will make me look young.”
She leaned closer, grimaced, and then recommended an appointment with the store’s internationally renowned makeup artist.
My session began with cleansing, toning, a light application of a youth-activating serum, followed by what the artist’s assistant described as “Spackle for your skin.” Next came tinted foundation, primer, anti-aging moisturizer and concealer. In case you’ve lost count of how many layers were needed to eradicate any trace left by the passage of time, it’s the equivalent of an oil slick.
Next came makeup: eyebrow pencil, eyeliner, five shades of eye shadow, eyelash booster, mascara, three shades of blush, highlighter, lip liner, lipstick and lip gloss. When it got to the point where makeup was going to start sliding off my face, Rembrandt stepped back with a beaming smile and handed me a mirror.
“Uhh!” I exclaimed.
He readjusted the mirror in my hand and invited me to take a second look. All I could do was stare at the reflection of my mother and shake my head slowly back and forth.
I got my new profile picture taken. I even uploaded it, but I don’t think I succeeded in de-aging myself. I wonder whether it was really necessary to try.
It’s true that my profile picture tells a thousand words some people may not want to hear. It’s also true that I have to compete with millennials for jobs that didn’t exist when I entered the workforce. As 50 becomes the new 65, being subjected to age discrimination is a reality in all aspects of my life. Nevertheless, my face tells a story I wouldn’t unwrite. Every mile I’ve walked in Rio de Janeiro, Budapest, and the jungles of Guyana left an imprint on my face that testifies to my adventures. Every job I’ve held and hour I’ve spent in front of a computer notched a groove on my forehead to mark my experience. And the lines bracketing my eyes and mouth? Those are from laughter. Here’s to many more.
