– by Trysh Ashby-Rolls –
Several years ago a woman came up to me at a public event and said: “You will never need a face lift. I should know, I’m a plastic surgeon.” To say that I was taken aback is an understatement. Rooted to the spot, mouth hanging open, I was uncharacteristically speechless.
I wonder what that doctor would say today. You can bet she’s doing a brisk business, what with the so-called boomer generation reaching retirement age still wanting to look youthful.
Despite a difficult life, my mother always looked far younger than her real age, with relatively few lines on her face even at age eighty. Yet she frequently examined herself in the mirror, worrying aloud that her age was showing. My sister and I would roll our eyes, devoid of understanding, thinking how self-absorbed our mother had become. We were years away from walking in her shoes. Yet now, at 71, I’ve begun staring in the mirror at my changing mug, noting my ever-deepening creases.
Maturity is great. Old age? The pits.
Where once certain body parts defied gravity, now they droop ever further toward the floor until soon, the feet will disappear from view. Veins, freckles and scars amalgamate, forming road maps to nowhere. Flab and cellulite enter one’s vocabulary. A tooth falls out, but no longer does it go under the pillow for the proverbial fairy to bring money. Instead we put money away wishing for the tooth fairy to bring dentures that fit properly. Where once we touched up our dark roots, now we darken up the grey. As to those creases or lines screaming for Botox, facelifts, expensive creams and those magic wands advertised on television, let’s hope there’s a lottery win in the cards. Or a change in perspective.
One of the most beautiful elderly faces ever photographed is that of a Mexican or South American woman. Her eyes are piercing cornflower blue, surrounded by the most wrinkled skin imaginable, each line a story. Her knitted brow tells of heartache, heartbreak, pain. The frown marks and lines across the forehead tell of childbirth, of sickness and hunger, of the death of loved ones, of shock and surprise. They are, however, balanced on either side of those amazing eyes by laughter lines: the giggles of girlhood fun, jokes and skipping rope in the sunshine; first love, wedding flowers and a honeymoon spent beneath a special patchwork quilt made by great-grandmothers. Pregnancy and first baby, second baby, third … later, grandchildren. Feasts, good harvests, moments of mature love – a comforting gnarled hand, a kindly word, its meaning known only to two long-married people.
Lines above the mouth signal the pursed lips of disapproval, dislike. Or too many cigarillos smoked during times of every stressful emotion on the spectrum. Or an altogether different story: the pucker of kisses. A lifetime of kissing, she might say slyly. Maybe a hint of anguish, hurt, bitterness on the outside of the mouth folding toward the chin. Stories she prefers left unremembered that nudge occasionally: a husband’s betrayal, a son in jail, a daughter gone astray. Death reaching out its bony hand.
She stares into the lens and marvels at the complexity of life as a fresh memory arises and she smiles secretly to herself. The camera catches in her dancing eyes a story that she’ll never tell a soul.
Story-lines, wrinkles – call them what you like. Respect and love each one. For they are the stuff of character and experience; of life well-lived.
