By Lavinia Plonka
I remember when it began. I was standing on a crowded subway, hanging onto the bar, when I felt a tug. A young man sitting in front of me said, “Ma’am, would you like to sit down?” “What? No, I’m just fine,” I replied. Then it washed over me. After all, there were lots of other women standing up. But he had offered the seat to me because I looked old.
I stared at myself in the mirror. For most of my life, with the exception of an especially ridiculous period between age 13 – 17 when I was trying to figure out how to look like Twiggy (I know, if you’re under 50, you have no idea who that is, which makes me even OLDER!) I really never paid much attention to my face from the beauty perspective. My mother, bless her Russian heart, would often tell me, “You should cultivate your brains because no man will ever marry you for your looks.” Makeup was something I wore on stage, in order to become whatever character I played, not an ornamentation. I actually have the same container of eye shadow I bought over 30 years ago.
So I hadn’t noticed that my face had lost its battle with gravity. My loving husband Ron had not seemed to notice. When I asked him if I looked old, his first response was, “Huh? No, honey, you’re as beautiful as ever,” trying to dismiss me so he could go back to figuring out how to put LEDs behind one of his pictures. “No, seriously! Take a look!” He could tell from the tone of my voice that I was not going to leave him alone. He regarded me and shrugged. “You look the same.”
“Put on your glasses,” I insisted.
He put on not one, but two pairs of glasses, peering at me as if I was a museum subject. “Hmmm. You’re right. I never noticed all those spots. And your cheeks….” He put his hands on my cheeks and pulled them up and back. “Maybe just a little lift and tuck?”
I regaled him with a few chosen unprintable words and stormed out. In the distance I heard him say, “Well you asked….”
As I critically examined myself, I realized that I had inherited my mother’s crepey, wrinkled cheeks AND my father’s wealth of age spots. My lips were disappearing and what I soon learned are called marionette lines around my mouth were as deep as any wooden dummy.
The inner struggle began. The feminist crone spoke. “Think of the wrinkles as wisdom lines. Embrace your inner beauty, don’t buy into our consumerist propaganda that tells you how you should look! You never did before. You should be celebrating each hard earned age spot. And while you’re at it, why are still dying your hair red? With that face you’re not fooling anyone about your age. Be the wise woman, dance your wild, gray self!”
“But . . . I’ve been dying my hair since I was 16 – red hair is my brand! It’s not just about gray. It’s how I define myself. And I exercise, eat right and feel great. Why not do something to look great as well?”
“You mean younger.”
“OK, fine, what’s wrong with that?”
I consulted my sisters, who live in LA where it is a law to look 26 forever. “Fillers and botox,” they recommended. I made an appointment.
The doctor’s face reminded me of a kewpie doll – smooth, swollen, and frozen. It was clear she had drunk her Kool-aid. Nonetheless, she convinced me to try their intro special to at least get control of my marionette lines. $300 later, I walked out wishing I was wearing a mask to cover the injection holes on my face. For weeks after, I’d ask people, (including Ron), “Notice anything different?”
“New sweater?”
“New hair color?”
“Lost weight?” (That’s another article.)
Not one person had noticed my diminished lines. Wrinkles are in the eyes of the beholder.
I let a few years go by, trying new anti-aging lotions and potions, facials and even a period (recommended by a friend who always looked fabulous) of putting banana peels, avocado and whatever else was left on the chopping block on my face. I reminded myself of those crazy portraits of people made out of vegetables. I stood on my head, hoping the wrinkles would fall upside down. All for naught.
Another doctor. At first she recommended a special filler that was “guaranteed” to make me look younger after a couple of months. Made from bovine cartilage. I envisioned this herd of cattle sacrificing their cartilage just to satisfy my vanity. Oh, and it was $8000. For $8000 I could take a trip around the world, who cares how old I look?
Then she said, “How about threading?”
“OK, I’ll bite, what’s involved?” The doctor numbs your face with novocaine, injects you with a plastic thread that has barbs on it that pulls your face up. Then she injects your cheeks and saggy chin with a web of more plastic threads. I went home and watched a YouTube video of the procedure. I imagined my brain thinking I was either undergoing scientific experimentation or some sort of torture, and paying for the privilege.
Now that everyone is freaking out about facial recognition and privacy invasion, and masks are selling out to ostensibly protect people from coronavirus, I’m thinking of starting a new/old fashion trend. Veils. They could come in different colors, there could be half-veils revealing the eyes (although of course my eyes are nothing but squinty points surrounded by laugh lines. I have to find that eye shadow.) They could come in a multitude of colors, decorated with sequins, semi-transparent, or gold lame´. They would be a triple threat delight: Protection from deadly virus, defying facial recognition technology, and providing mysterious allure.
I’m going to set up my Etsy page right now because I know the orders are going to come flooding in. You read it here first.
Body language expert, Lavinia Plonka has taught The Feldenkrais Method for over 25 years.
For more information, visit her at laviniaplonka.com