I’m intrigued too. What would be the woman’s story, if she had shared it? What specific (pragmatic? mistaken? tragic?) circumstances led her to that point in her life? Another story for another day.
I think there’s a typo by the way: “Forgive me if I assert that she couldn’t [have?] pleased him less.”
It makes me sad too when I witness the misguided pursuance of youth where a face has become unrecognisable by the lack of life and humanity in it. Erased and replaced with... something else. You are right, we are all connected, brutalised by the pinch and slice of the cosmetic scalpel and what it represents. By terrible events that happened before and to someone else, the echoes continue in the space between us and hurt as much. We’re personally shaped by each violent act whether against ourselves or an ‘other’. More Bandol I think. ❤️🩹
I mentioned to a friend, as a sort of truthful joke, that I'm at that stage where my jowls could be fixed with those little bulldog clips that fly of of Christmas crackers. I was dismayed to learn that my flippant notion of a bureaucratic facelift is by some women pursued in earnest! You can buy these pieces of elastic with sticky tape at either end that pull your ageing skin back in the direction if your ears. It's as desperate and disingenuous as padding your bra, and encroaching on the very seat of interpersonality. And can you imagine anything more dispiriting than standing before the bathroom mirror at close of day to watch your face inevitably, helplessly fall? It's no wonder the lust for taughtness escalates towards the scalpel.
It’s the lips that get to me, the ubiquity of them, standing out identically on (female) faces of 18-70+ They make me sorry, but also so cross that sometimes I turn away rather than have to transact with them. There is a lady at my gym, in her lates 60s maybe, a little hunched and with the careful walk and hands of someone who knows arthritis. She’s nice, chatty and friendly, but she has those lips and (my problem this), it makes me think I can’t be friends with someone who would do that to themselves.
On another note, Bandol is a lovely wine, and it’s white neighbour Cassis - both tricky to get hold of for a reasonable price in London
Intriguing piece. Perhaps the encounter tells us much about how we (including me), of a certain generation, try to relate to a society in which we see desires and aspirations instilled and shaped by peers, influencers, promoters, advertisers and fashion.
I’m intrigued too. What would be the woman’s story, if she had shared it? What specific (pragmatic? mistaken? tragic?) circumstances led her to that point in her life? Another story for another day.
I think there’s a typo by the way: “Forgive me if I assert that she couldn’t [have?] pleased him less.”
It makes me sad too when I witness the misguided pursuance of youth where a face has become unrecognisable by the lack of life and humanity in it. Erased and replaced with... something else. You are right, we are all connected, brutalised by the pinch and slice of the cosmetic scalpel and what it represents. By terrible events that happened before and to someone else, the echoes continue in the space between us and hurt as much. We’re personally shaped by each violent act whether against ourselves or an ‘other’. More Bandol I think. ❤️🩹
I mentioned to a friend, as a sort of truthful joke, that I'm at that stage where my jowls could be fixed with those little bulldog clips that fly of of Christmas crackers. I was dismayed to learn that my flippant notion of a bureaucratic facelift is by some women pursued in earnest! You can buy these pieces of elastic with sticky tape at either end that pull your ageing skin back in the direction if your ears. It's as desperate and disingenuous as padding your bra, and encroaching on the very seat of interpersonality. And can you imagine anything more dispiriting than standing before the bathroom mirror at close of day to watch your face inevitably, helplessly fall? It's no wonder the lust for taughtness escalates towards the scalpel.
It is a strange and sad phenomenon. Wearing honest age bravely is a powerful thing
It’s the lips that get to me, the ubiquity of them, standing out identically on (female) faces of 18-70+ They make me sorry, but also so cross that sometimes I turn away rather than have to transact with them. There is a lady at my gym, in her lates 60s maybe, a little hunched and with the careful walk and hands of someone who knows arthritis. She’s nice, chatty and friendly, but she has those lips and (my problem this), it makes me think I can’t be friends with someone who would do that to themselves.
On another note, Bandol is a lovely wine, and it’s white neighbour Cassis - both tricky to get hold of for a reasonable price in London
Intriguing piece. Perhaps the encounter tells us much about how we (including me), of a certain generation, try to relate to a society in which we see desires and aspirations instilled and shaped by peers, influencers, promoters, advertisers and fashion.