Sometimes I worry that a moving forehead is becoming extinct.
Just as conservation programmes trudge through the grasslands of Africa, identifying and tracing the endangered black Rhino population, I too keep a running tally of every fine line I see. I file it away. It is evidence that, although rare, the animated face still exists.
When I see a frozen forehead, or at least one devoid of lines, I do not feel angry or disappointed or betrayed. Another woman's face does not belong to me. She can do with it what she likes. I would be a hypocrite to police and judge her choices, while I colour my hair, and lather my skin in serums that do God knows what. To argue there's much of a difference between an anti-aging cream and an anti-aging needle is philosophically difficult. Trust me, I've tried. Most of us, in our own neurotic ways, are trying to look younger. We are just doing so within different budgets, and to varying degrees.
But when I see a forehead that moves and creases that deepen when an expression shifts, I feel relief. A sense of permission. It is as though those lines are actually words, and they read "you're allowed".
You are allowed to age, and you will not spontaneously combust if you show outward signs of it.