Chirky

I’ve never been one of those women who fretted about dry skin or worried about wrinkles or examined her locks on a regular basis for evidence of graying. It always kind of amazed me, actually, that people spent time even worrying about these things. Until it happened to me.

It all started with the white hairs: first I found them on my shins, of all places. And last week when I was styling my curls, I found several silver threads hidden among my espresso-colored ponytail. Not a big deal, I thought – there’s really not that many. And maybe they’re my crown of wisdom. They show how much life experience I’ve had! I will embrace them!

Then this week, while sweeping mascara over my eyelashes, I was distracted by a shadow between my eyebrows. I adjusted the light and it didn’t disappear. Had I been squinting? I wiggled my forehead, trying to relax my face. The shadow was still there. I moved to another mirror – and then another room altogether – to get a second opinion. And lo: I had wrinkles. Two of them, in fact. Permanent creases that undoubtedly stemmed from my worst habit: furrowing my brow. I do it when I’m thinking, when I’m concentrating, when I’m listening, when I’m frustrated, when the sun is too bright. I’m constantly reminding myself to stop furrowing my brow – it actually gives me a headache – and yet I cannot stop. I’ve even tried putting a piece of tape between my eyebrows, so that when I feel it crinkle I will stop. And do you know what happened? I tore the tape off, annoyed that I couldn’t move my face. (But, hey: easier than tweezing. As long as the tape isn’t crooked.)

I somehow managed to make myself look like Owen Wilson. Send help.

And so, I’m on the prowl for the illusive wrinkle-removing cream. I’ll try just about anything than you can recommend, because I’m far too young to have this much “life experience.” Though we’ll call it that for now.