On losing one’s looks, and learning not to care

In some ways I’m lucky. I’ve barely had a day since childhood when my complexion hasn’t been marred by some blemish or other. If vanity was ever one of my character idiosyncrasies, it was swiftly overcome but something more like practicality. Looking normal replaced looking good, and for all other eventualities, I became a dab hand at makeup. So much so that once or twice in my life, I’ve been mistaken for beautiful. But striving for that when you’re really not is far too much like hard work the rest of the time.

In my twenties I aimed for polished- harder said than done with two kids under five for most of the decade.

In my thirties, I settled for clean. Anything else was too much effort – by which, I learned that being thought attractive can have major drawbacks.

And, as one variety of blemish or or other faded, they were replaced by others – a grey hair that quickly multiplied, a fine line that became etched. Over time, holding back the inevitable has become a dam that began with a trickle and which is becoming a torrent. Grey hairs which could once be plucked are now highlighted away; and skin which is losing the peachy firmness and bounce of youth, muscles which, through lack of use and too much chair sitting, are becoming slack feel like more effort than it’s worth to do too much about. And the damage of just one night of fun hangs around for weeks. In short, I’m getting on. And I’m really quite OK about it.

I could live without the hair loss (on my head) and growth (everywhere else) but at least it’s confirmation of the hormonal issues that have plagued me since a diet of soya milk when I was nerry an infant, so at least doctors actually treat it rather than listening to my symptoms with a blank faced state and inconclusive blood test results.

The frown I botoxed just last month, some two years after this post was first began after years of looking thunderous, but actually just for astygmic squinting, with results that’s shaved at least that much off my face, is, along with highlights, perhaps my biggest sop to age prevention. I look less cross, which is what I was aiming for, but the week of neck pain I suffered afterwards was enough to give me at least ten more grey hairs.

These days I’m grateful for what I can get. With generalised thinning I’ve put up with regular chops, I finally feel flush enough to burn money on expensive thickening shampoos. On my hairdresser’s advice (and with the significant evidence of a client she swore was almost bald coming in for an appointment after me with a thick head of long hair) I spent the best part of £60 on Nioxin products (system 3 in case you were wondering) and I’ll reply back about the results.

But this post isn’t about my efforts to hold back the years, although I’m grateful that they exist. It’s about the fact that I no longer give two flying pheasants about who thinks I’m attractive. Not the boss who launched into a tirade about what men think of as good looking in women when I mentioned how differently I’m treated by the general public with and without makeup on, or anyone else for that matter. Tom who more often than not, sees me at my absolute worst on practically every week night, thinks I’m beautiful even if I am still insecure enough to flinch every time he says it. But any power I have (which ain’t that much) is so much less derived from how I look these days as how I feel about myself. And most of the time, that’s not too bad.

Which is something women’s magazines (which I only ever leaf through when I’m having said highlights done) too often forget to convey (although they might make a great play of any mention). But then beauty really is a a mixed blessing and it’s hard to miss what you never really had.