Earlier this year I had a disconcerting experience. Walking past a shop, I saw a woman in the window wearing an identical dress to mine ‘Jeez who is that old lady in my dress?’ I thought uncharitably.
It was a reflective mirror. That old lady was me.
This story sits in direct contrast to a middle-aged gay friend of mine who leant forward to kiss a gorgeous guy in a steamy sauna and bumped heads with himself in the mirror.
But this is not a story about his self-love or my self-hatred. It’s more about how we face up to the fact that as we age, our face gradually stops matching how we feel. Or even how we see ourselves. My brain seems to have a frozen image of myself at twenty-six; an unlined face with full cheeks, Poppy matte lipstick and a totally different haircut. In my head this is the face that presents to the world. So I am constantly shocked when I see myself with the eyes of an outsider and reality is reflected in the mirror or the shop window.
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Perhaps it’s a bit like how my brain erased the extreme pain of childbirth. It then airbrushed the obvious fact that as my babies grew up my face fell down.
I work in the media so I know many women who get fillers and Botox. It’s part of their job; both insurance and security. Indeed every time I appear on television, I recoil at how different I look compared to others and how different I look to how I see myself. How old I look compared to how I feel.