Wrinkles are Beautiful
I remember a few years ago (eight, to be exact), when we were all turning thirty, a friend bemoaning the arrival of wrinkles. I hadn't noticed any on her and certainly hadn't been looking for them or worrying about them on myself. When I noticed my first few starting to show, I was excited rather than depressed.
Because wrinkles are beautiful. They are the books that tell the stories of our lives: frown lines weave tales of money worries and health scares; the lines that cross the forehead tell of a life filled with wonder and awe; the laughter lines around the mouth show us a joker and the soul of the party; the smile lines around the eyes wax lyrical about a life filled with love and care; the lopsided forehead lines depict the wit of the sardonic eyebrow raiser.
A face without wrinkles is a blank book, showing only a life not yet lived; innocence and ignorance, where wrinkles speak of experience and wisdom. Facelifts and creams and magic potions: they serve only to hide the book, lock it away where no-one else can read it; they deny the life you have led, the things you have learned and experienced, the loves you have known, the laughter and tears that have shaped your world.
My dad spent the majority of his life hiding behind a big bushy beard, but the lines on his forehead and around his eyes, while only allowing a glimpse of one or two volumes of his book, showed how much of his time he spent laughing and smiling. My gran's book is thick with writing – there are plenty of tales of worry and hard toil, but the smile lines shine through, playing out the huge family saga for all to see and soak up.
My book has only just started, but I relish the words that will fill it up over the next forty or fifty years.