I Guess I Have Wrinkles Now
My grandma flashed her breasts at me when I was 5 years old. First of all, IT WAS FUNNY, but for context, she had dementia, I called her wrinkly, and she said, “you wanna see wrinkly?” Then she pulled her shirt up to her belly button and flashed me. It was harmless, but she was right: her body was covered in wrinkles. In her more than eight decades on Earth, her body was a collection of wrinkles earned over time. Her laughter, her children, oxygen, and time wore deep into her skin.
I’m 26. And got called wrinkly yesterday. I called my grandmother wrinkly when she was 86.
I’ve worked as a model for several years now. I always attributed my good skin and youthful glow to the lack of sun exposure growing up in the dark hell that is Alaska winter. It really didn’t occur to me that lines had been creasing my paper skin until it was pointed out by a make up artist. And quite frankly, I never gave a shit. I was called back to where hair and make up was taking place. “What are these lines on your face? Did you get filler?” Um, no. They are eye bags. What? No one in Los Angeles has eye bags? (Not in my line of work). “Well, it’ll take some work to cover them up.” As if she had to dip a paintbrush into a bucket and put in some elbow grease to cover the shitty wallpaper that has been my 26 years of living. And yeah, I didn’t sleep well the night before but at this point in my life, we are BEYOND that being an excuse.
I grew up in a time when Botox and injections were mostly frowned upon and reserved for people with Botox and injections MONEY. Today, with almost every celebrity and Instagram model rocking fillers and lip injections, the procedures are almost commonplace. And look, I’m all for changing whatever you don’t like about yourself. Go off, sis. But I STILL don’t have filler money and until that happens, these holes will hollow out more and more.
Do you know what else happened this week? My check engine light came on (and I’m pretending it didn’t). I got my period and Target only had the *organic* OB tampons (i.e. MORE EXPENSIVE). I had to buy contacts because my eyes are crappy, too. My landlord charges me for laundry and I melted a Snickers into my bedspread. That’s easily six bucks worth of washing! I don’t have coins in the couch to pay for needles in my face! I have REAL LIFE problems, man.
And it’s not like I treat my face poorly. I’m not rubbing St. Ive’s bullshit into it or lathering it with baking soda. I buy Kiehl’s. I wash this bitch DAILY. I moisturize her. This didn’t stop me from scouring the internet for remedies. Tear trough fillers. Face lifts. Endless possibilities.
I thought of my grandma. Her hands always looked like she had been in the bathtub for fifty years. Were my eye bags that bad? Nah.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get fillers. There is something enticing about my face becoming a road map of all the times I’ve felt some type of emotion. Laugh lines to show I’ve lived. Crows feet to show the sun was shining.
Or maybe I’m just broke.
