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Putty Face…

I bought a primer called “putty.”

Can you imagine the cosmetics peeps sitting round the table?

“Let’s call it putty.”

“You mean like spackle?”

“Exactly. I bet it calls all the old ladies to the yard.”

Have to say–it worked. This woman of a certain age got the message immediately. Putty–like fill in all those cracks and crevices, some large enough for a small child to fall into. I can’t decide if I should be excited or insulted. I blame my wrinkle arrogance.

I had a line-less face through my thirties and forties. I admit to no age after that. Suffice it to say, wrinkles appeared on other faces, not mine. Radiation gave some of them permission to come out to play. But, it’s only recently that a jagged, criss cross melange of lines appeared around my mouth and cascaded to my chin. My chin wrinkles are Vikings, evil in their takeover proudly planting their flag. And they are relentless.

I’d like to say lack of lines resulted from superior skin care and devotion. Nope. My father was Dorian Gray. Don’t know Dorian? He’s Oliver Wilde’s concoction–read the novel. Truly. He hit about 38 and never aged a day. I assumed when I hit mid-thirties and others cried out over fine lines and facial intrusions while my face remained unmolested that I had, indeed, inherited my father’s superior gene pool.

Cute as a button, with sparkly green eyes, my dad’s face got more rugged, the way most men age–bastards. But he never got etches from worry or too much smiling, though smiling was a thing. Really, a cute little smirk. He was known for it. I thanked him regularly and labeled him Dorian Gray to his line-less face. I was rewarded with the smirk.

And then my face fell. It came after my other parts, but still. During quarantine, the ravages took on a life of their own. Am I grimacing while ingesting Netflix, Amazon and Hulu? Did my face freeze in disapproval watching the debates? Whatever happened, in the mirror, I now see my grandmother’s lines. I loved my Granna to death, but I never longed for her wrinkles.

Her joie de vie, yes, but her wrinkles, non. Her face was quite etched and I swear it came from living life large, arriving to her death laughing and exhausted from all that partying. Married four times, known for her tremendous fetes and impeccable manners, she couldn’t have cared less about wrinkles. Her attitude, and bravery, I did not get. So I bought putty.

Did it work? Meh. Perhaps the indentations of life are just too deep. Perhaps we are supposed to wear our experiences on our faces. Although, yesterday, using a three times magnification mirror to apply putty, I stopped to take a sip of coffee. All those chin lines joined together to pull the elixir down my throat. Could it be my wrinkles are muscle memory from coffee consumption?

I think further–What else causes those muscles to clench? You mean besides dirty martinis, two olives, extra dirty and the Pinot twins, Noir and Grigio? Could it be that those of us who eschew food after seven p.m. to control weight are trading for wrinkles due to liquid ingestion? After all, wrinkles are just repeated use of certain muscles are they not?

So, is it time to give up coffee and cocktails? Bahahaha. Two things, wrinkles are permanent and I think I just heard my Granna turn in her grave.

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