Since I turned 30 earlier this year, the only thing I want to talk to my friends about is their skincare regime. OK, I still also want to talk to them about sex, dating, and horoscopes. But the most pressing topic on the table at cocktail hour is not which Scorpio we’re sleeping with or which Gemini we’re being ghosted by. It’s what we’re doing to our faces.
Of course, some of them have had Botox (one has been getting it since she was 27). Others have had filler, buccal fat removal, and a few are considering treatments I didn’t even know existed. Eyebrow lift, anyone?
Call me a cliché but I really didn’t think about ageing at all until the big 3-0. Now, I’ve acquired a grim habit of staring at my face each morning, identifying various flaws, and wondering what more I could be doing to make myself look better. And when I say “better”, I should be clear that what I mean is “younger”.
Stopping smoking is the first one; I only have the occasional cigarette when I drink alcohol but obviously quitting altogether would be enormously beneficial. Consuming as many supplements as I can get my hands on is the other: collagen, biotin, and probiotics. Drinking Borough bone broth as often as I remember to buy it (apparently it’s loaded with collagen). And aggressively using a gua sha on my jawline whenever I can.
I’ve spent oodles investing in expensive beauty tech tools promising to deliver a youthful visage. That small electrical one that apparently jolts your face into shape? Got that. The ludicrously high-tech laser that’s supposed to regenerate my skin cells and reduce redness? I use it every day for 20 minutes. The infrared mask that anyone and everyone is posting about on Instagram? I’ve been using mine daily for a year.
I should clarify that I have an aversion to Botox, and all the other tweakments I could invest in. It’s not that I judge anyone that does it. I’m just a little bit afraid that once I start, I won’t be able to stop. What if I suddenly can’t afford it and my face starts to sag? Or it goes wrong and I end up looking droopy and misshapen? What if I awaken a plastic surgery addiction and start changing my entire appearance?
I resent how much headspace I’ve allowed all this to take up. But it really has become all-consuming, like a daily self-flagellation session for no longer being in my twenties. This is despite being fully aware we live in society that fetishises youth as a means of oppressing women. We fear ageing because we’ve been sold the lie that older women lose their social and cultural capital, when in reality they’re probably more empowered, confident, and financially independent than they’ve ever been. The ones I know certainly are.
And yet, the conditioning is too deep for me to shake off: I’m single. I’m out a lot. And I want to look good. So do all of my friends. Kim Kardashian once famously admitted she’d eat human faeces if it would make her look young. If I’m being really honest with myself, I think I would too. Maybe not now but in a few wrinkles’ time, I can see myself resorting to desperate measures to look fresh while avoiding going near any needles.
I wish this wasn’t the case. Because ageing isn’t something any of us should fear; it’s something we should embrace and celebrate. To get older is a privilege; it’s natural to see signs of that on our faces. The songs of experience write their lyrics all over us and we’re lucky to witness them. Maybe the irony is that all this will only start to sink in as I get older. Only time will tell.
