What a place to have a eureka moment.
I was flat on my back, eyes to the ceiling slightly seeing double, holding my g-string in place at the top of my hips with a beauty therapist smoothing wax along my pelvis. But something about the brief conversation, in which we discovered we’re both the same age, made me realise I am for sure getting older.
It’s a fact I’ve dismissed since maybe 24. This is despite being reminded by talks of mortgages and buying-to-let, becoming increasingly broody among other things, that I’m indeed closer to 30 than 20. So while the therapist and I discussed a spray solution to ingrown hairs, I brought up switching up my skincare regime for my “changing skin”. She laughed in agreement because now we have to consider “moisturising more and using sun protection!”
Yes, we do.
Fortunately, being black has blessed me with a youthful exterior so visible ageing isn’t necessarily a huge worry of mine – I more so wonder when I will simply look my age – but something within our trivial chit chat connected me to this journey I’m on called ageing. And it wasn’t attached to either a positive or negative feeling, it just was.
Sure enough when I walked out of the Colchester salon in my very mismatched khaki, grey, striped, and printed outfit, which should never have seen the light of day, I vowed that on the way to the bank a few hours later, I wouldn’t dress for comfort and throw on the first item which lacked the caress of an iron, but would attempt to look like a lady. A 26-year-old lady.
The result was okay; an improvement on the usual but not as coiffed as 22-year-old Saoirse Ryan in the film Brooklyn whose Fifties style inspired me on screen this weekend. However, I acknowledged it’s time to accept growing up and allow myself to evolve again.
And at the time of writing this, I hadn’t even swapped my fitted dress for men’s marl tracksuit bottoms and a jumper – something is happening.