I became a skincare girlie last month. I won’t give you all the boring details of how I got here, but I will say that it was far overdue. But, briefly: someone asked me about my routine, and was horrified when I said I didn’t have one.
Anyway, this led me to do all sorts of research online: do I need to use toner, and if so, why? What kind of moisturizer is best for my skin type? What is my skin type? (Note: I’m still unsure.)
But the point of this is, I noticed something that made me uncomfortable: a significant number of products that I scrolled through were marked as anti-aging. They’ll smooth fine lines, make skin more elastic (ew?), and stop the aging process in its tracks.
Recently, I read a quote on Tumblr that went something like this:
“Aging isn’t half as scary as whatever it is people are doing to try and prevent it.”
This got me thinking, and led to a rabbit hole of strange, unfathomable anti-aging products including everything from breast milk facials for healing acne scars to bee venom skincare products to combat wrinkles.
(No shade on people using these. I just can’t see myself ever wanting to try them — especially as someone allergic to bees.)
And then, soon after, I watched a movie I found in my teenage years —Death Becomes Her*, a hilarious commentary on the lengths people will go to to avoid aging — which hammers the point home that our culture is obsessed with staying young.
This isn’t a new concept, but it is something I’ve been thinking about more as I grow older. How, at as young as ten years old, I remember reading in magazines the things I needed to do to look young and beautiful. We’ve historically taught children that all the things that come along with aging — wrinkles, gray hair — aren’t acceptable; they’re something to be kept at bay.
Ever since I was a teenager (after an unfortunate stint where I was obsessed with Maybelline’s Dream Matte Mousse to hide my “imperfections”), I’ve embraced aging. For reasons I won’t go into, the idea of getting older, of improving — of things getting better — propelled me forward.
I can say with honesty that my life has gotten better every single year I’ve lived it. I’m more confident in myself and my abilities, I don’t obsess over whether I was awkward in a social situation, and my talent in setting boundaries is unmatched.
And, unsurprisingly, I’ve aged all the while I was growing. I noticed my first white hair when I was in my early twenties. When I sleep, I curl so tightly into myself that when I wake, I have long grooves along my chest for the rest of the day from where I folded in on myself. My knees pop, my back hurts, and I have a single black dot in my eye that follows wherever I look.
But I don’t think aging needs to be scary; I don’t think aging needs to be something we avoid. Really, we should embrace it — the good, the bad, and the strange. So what if my neck crunches when I turn too quickly? So what if the thought of staying up all night at a party makes me nauseous? I’m happy — happier than I’ve ever been — and more assured of myself than I was last year, or the year before, or the year before that.
If this means my hair turns white and I start waking up at 6 a.m., I’m fine with it: it means I’m growing, learning, and becoming a better person through it all. That, I have to say, is more important than unlined skin ever could be.
