The other morning I woke up and looked at myself in the mirror; a frizzy-haired, puffy-eyed face marked by the ghost of my pillow blinked back.
This is a face I'm used to, but this morning I accidentally flicked on the brighter of two lights in my bathroom.
Much to my dismay (but perhaps begrudgingly to my benefit), they're both overhead lights, beaming down from the ceiling to carefully accentuate every pore, picked-at-pimple, and split-ended flyaways.
But one of them shines its cool-toned (shudder) light particularly brightly, and as an adamant opposer of Big Lights, it is the silent rule that the Big Light stays OFF.
I gasped. I was stunned. About an inch and a half above my brow, there it was: a faint line.
But surely not. It’s a pillow mark, right? Everyone says it's bad to sleep on your stomach so maybe it's that. Or maybe Bed Bath and Beyond is grating away at my youthful glow each night - one microfiber pillowcase at a time.
Whatever it was, I was appalled. I snarled at my line of half-used serums, neatly lined up shoulder-to-shoulder and gazing back at me with pity.
Poor little Char has a wrinkle at the ripe age of twenty-four. She shall surely never marry!!
A spinster of sorts, she'll have a craft or a pet at best. She should plan to pack her things, for she will be venturing to the land where poorly aging white women wait to die. She shall beg and pray and repent for each time she slept in her makeup 8 vodka red bulls in. Her cheeks shall sink, her eyes shall scrunch and her lips shall crinkle. She will think fondly of her youth.
I'm so serious, it was a day-ruiner. I frantically showed my mother, who quickly shoved her Oprah-approved reading glasses in her face so she could get the clearest image.
There I am telling her about this wrinkle, how devastating my failed retinol journey was, and that I'm scared accutane will make me suicidal but maybe I should still consider it. But that it was no use. And that the jade roller was a scam. And that they should make homes for poor girls like me who shrivel up and die before 25.
"I don't see anything, Cha," she said after a careful inspection. I scoff in disagreement, and the wrinkle haunts me for the remainder of the week. I'm the only one who can see it, and that's the most wicked part.
Since then, I've had other grievances and dramas arise to punctuate my days: a newfound appreciation for Sade, a missed workout class, and a New York Rat the size of a possum splattered out on the crossing. Hit and run, rumor has it.
My alarm has kept ringing and the city is still cold and my wrinkle has not ruined my life. In fact, in an almost backward way, I think it gave me a new sense of perspective.
The reality is that one day I will be old and wrinkly, worn and weathered. I'll have shakey hands and bad hearing and I'll shuffle about reminiscing on the time I thought I was a spinster at 24. I'll have a curved back and white hair and lots and lots of lines from the laughs I laughed and the smiles I'll smile.
By then I'll be much cooler.
I'll know myself so intimately, and my body will be the vessel to carry me through this life. I'll be out of the loop with the lingo but I'll know that I love candles and that I hate Big Lights.
I'll know which detergent I prefer and be able to tell someone why. I'll have an all-time favorite wine, a song that my kids will laugh at me for loving. I'll tout about the importance of investing in white shirts and will have 45 in my closet, some more tailored and some more sheer. I'll search through them to find the one with that hemming that I like that would be Just Right for An Occassion Like This.
By then I'll have loved so many, read so much. I'll have seen the cyclical nature of this world firsthand, and I'll be far wiser for it. I'll be grown enough to accept myself in all of my duality, and I mean in a real Fran Lebowitz I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck way. And it'll be dope.
Tonight I looked at myself in the mirror; wet hair, clean skin, and freshly exfoliated face. My skin was soft, taut and smooth. My eyes were clear and my baby hair soft. I looked just like I did when I was a little girl.
I remembered how much I marveled at my mother as that little girl. How I would creep into her wardrobe when she was picking my brother up from soccer and try her high heels on.
I would dig through her jewelry and play with her pearls and apply whatever powder felt right on my cheeks, mimicking her careful nature.
I would pat and dab and smooth and moisturize and smell her perfumes and look at the shape of her used lipsticks with confusion.
I saw the beauty in her womanhood and her wisdom and her age and experience. Her refinement and her taste. Her ability to stand up for herself. To like things and to dislike things. To be honest and sometimes pissed off. To Give A Fuck and to Let Shit Go.
Anyways, it's getting late and my laptops about to die !! bye!!!
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