I got up a little earlier than usual the other day and got some news: I look my age.
I didn’t know this.
It was early in the day and the winter sun was shining in through the bathroom window at a lower angle than I was used to. The light was coming at my face from the side, casting shadows on my cheeks. Deep shadows.
What I had thought was a pretty good, not-terribly-old-looking face actually had wrinkles. Long, deep, no-nonsense wrinkles running up and down my cheeks like earthquake faults.
Oh, my gosh. I had no idea I was this old. My creaky joints had been delivering the news to me quietly for years. But I’d kept that information to myself, hoping to pass as a sixty- or seventy-something jock who could Spin and Zumba with the fifty-somethings.
But now, looking into the mirror at my early morning self, I saw that, unbeknownst to me, my face had been telling the world exactly how old I was. Which is old, 84 to be exact.
Maybe I Want a Facelift After All
I don’t believe in silicon breast implants or facelifts that leave your cheeks looking like you’re facing into 100-mph headwinds. No. Not for me. I stand by the natural, hippie aesthetic I embraced when I came to San Francisco as a twenty-something decades ago.
Yes. I wore padded bras as a teenager, and in my forties I let my hairdresser color — OK, dye — my gray hairs. But I always drew the line at facelifts. It was a red line.
Was.
More on the natural look at “Tint My Eyebrows? It’s an Existential Question.” For a glimpse of the teenaged me in that padded bra, go to “Half a Century Later, I’m Still a Size 10 . . . OK, 12”
Note to readers. As promised, I’ve switched from a once-a-week to a once-a-month posting schedule. Subscribers will get my emailed updates on the first Sunday of the month. (If you’re not already a subscriber, you can get links to my Riffs on Life via email. Look for the fat, orange sign-up button.)
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Meanwhile, I’m using that extra time to work on my book projects, including one that asks, can a woman have it all — career and husband and children? (The answer is yes, sorta.)
Don’t even think it Barbara. Friends who have had one were shocked by how painful recovery was. You look gorgeous. 84 is the new 65.
Nancy
Pain. Hmmm. Good to know. — Barbara
No,Barbie you are an ageless cutie pie.
Cutie pie! I’ll take it! — Barbie
Oh dear!!! That is exactly how I feel! Well said. 😁🤣
Let me know if you take the leap! — bfn
I want a face lift. Let me know if you find a doc that can give you a natural look. I’ve had a lot of sun over the years
Nancy
😎
My skin dates back to the “suntan lotion” days. It wasn’t sunscreen. It didn’t protect your skin from the rays. And it didn’t really give you a suntan. But we fell for it. — Barbara
I had a face-lift 24 years ago…a 60th birthday present to myself. It uncovered an underlying heart problem. I had an extra nerve. Scary, but fixable. I was pleased with the results after the redness faded. Now, 24 years later, I like to think it slowed the relentless march of the dreaded wrinkles, cracks and crevices. Who knows, maybe it did, but they’re baaack. But it took a long time. So I say go for it. It will certainly be a distraction from all the news.
OK. A distraction from the news. I hadn’t thought of it that way…. If the first facelift was 24 years ago, do people go in for a second one now? — Barbara
There is probably a doctor who can do a nice job on your face. After all aren’t you living in the land of plastic surgery? Gotta be somebody! But please, beware of that heading into the wind look! And, don’t make it a habit. That’s where they all go wrong!
Fortunately, I do not live in the land of plastic surgery. That would be Los Angeles, which is 350 miles south of the laid-back San Francisco Bay Area. I say fortunately, because I suspect that if I lived down there I would have succumbed to social pressure and had my face redone long ago. — Barb