I spend very little time looking in the mirror. In fact, some days I realise in my work lunch break that I haven’t actually checked at any point that I don’t have breakfast in my teeth, toothpaste on my nose, or snot in my hair. But the other morning I happened to take a good long look in the mirror. MY GOD. MY FACE! What happened to my face?!
In the four years since I had my children, I appear to have aged at least ten. I have the haggard, strained look of a woman who has had a much harder life than mine has been. My pale and pasty “English rose” complexion has taken on a slightly odd shade of grey, with a tinge of yellowish-brown around my eyes. I have wrinkles, lots and lots of wrinkles. I don’t mind the crows’ feet so much – they show that I’ve laughed a lot (and despite my online moaning, I do laugh a lot)…but the frown lines on my forehead are a worry. Aargh, no, I’ve got to stop worrying! (I’m now typing one-handed as I desperately smooth out my between-the-eyebrows crevices…)
Talking of eyebrows, these two bad boys are a right old state. Every so often (usually before a rare night out) I study my reflection and have a panic-plucking session. This is usually interrupted mid-way by a poo disaster or a sibling-fight umpiring requirement, so inevitably one poor neglected eyebrow remains somewhat more neglected than the other.
I look at those Alpha Mummy-types, with their neatly-groomed, fresh faced youthfulness, and wonder how they do it… Good genes? Babies that sleep through the night? Plenty of money to spend on miracle creams? Perhaps I need to re-visit my beauty regime…
In the meantime I’ll just keep on avoiding mirrors.