Words: Charlie Linton (she/her)
With age, she has lost so much of what held her back.
‘Do not complain about growing old. It is a privilege denied to many’ – Mark Twain
I’m 15, and have just found my first grey hair. A sliver of silver, plucked from my scalp, curled in my palm, barely visible under the bathroom light. I stare, then leave the strand in the sink to be washed away into oblivion. But in the few seconds of it sitting in my hand, it has transformed into a physical reminder; one day, my whole head will lose its dark shade, and with it, I will develop into someone unrecognisable. At 15, that feels like the worst thing possible.
Like most girls, I have been taught that ageing is something to fear, with social media only propagating this panic. The recent surge in popularity extends its sphere of influence, with algorithms filling with seven-step skincare routines and unaffordable facelifts. A winging sense of jealousy twinges in the back of my brain, as serums and creams creep onto my for-you-page, anti-wrinkle facials constantly appear, and smoothing filters are applied to every influencer’s posts in an effort to retain an appearance of youth. The world of online activity is now an ageless one, where bodily “imperfection” has vanished from existence.
I blame it on the mass-held fear of change. In a political climate such as the one of today, I see only change; Prime ministers come and go at a rate higher than ever before, global peace is continuously interrupted by bombs being dropped onto the heads of civilians, while men in high offices back in and out of decisions. I find myself rewatching childhood films, setting weekly routines to gain a sense of normalcy, even living with my best friend since I was 13, all to create a constant. Humans are simple creatures; we seek comfort above all else. Change is a scary prospect, as is the loss that comes with it; thus, our bodies transform into the medium through which we attempt to control the adaptations around us.
Ageing brings both change and loss. Sometimes I look at pictures of a 15-year-old me. She has long hair, straightened and dyed red. She’s thinner, spottier, with bitten fingernails. She never smiles with her teeth, never dances when people are watching. With age, she has lost so much of what held her back.
Now at 18, I continuously find new silver strands. Maybe it’s their regular appearance that has stopped me from fretting, maybe it’s the post-shower rush to uni that keeps me too busy to care. But the difference in three years is that I have simply stopped caring as much. It’s not only the physical transformations of ageing I now pay no notice to, but also a lack of care over what people think of me overall. I dance at every opportunity, I keep my hair short and in its natural curls, I smile, I eat properly.
I am happier.
Now I look at my hands, and I see my mother’s. The bands around my fingers are gold, hers are silver, but the folds in our skin are starting to look the same. She is the one who showed me how to blast music with the car windows open, gave me my love of reading, pushed me through school, and into university. As I’ve gotten older, more people say we look alike: same curls, same nose, same smile. She is now in her 50s, with silver seeping into her roots that I, too, will one day have. She has never dyed it, never complained, never whipped herself of ageing. Because what a privilege it is to grow old.
My smile lines are souvenirs of days spent laughing, given to me by the people I love. My shoulders ache from the heavy bag that I carry to university, the university full of new people that has given me the happiest six months of my life. My freckles are days of sunlight, mementoes of holidays spent basking on the beach, only to come home burnt. The pimples that once populated my face have been replaced by wrinkles between my eyebrows, developed from hours spent staring at my laptop screen in a frantic effort to make essay deadlines. The stretch marks across my hips are reminders of cakes baked and eaten with my sister, of dinners out with friends, and new recipes tried and tasted. All my little “imperfections” are reminders of a life lived and a life spent loving.
Life expectancy is continuously on the rise. Today we have over a decade longer of life to live than two generations ago, more of a chance to meet new people, go to new places, love harder and longer. A few more achy muscles and some smile lines, in my eyes, is a small price to pay.
