The Perks and Perils of Being "34, F"
Musings on the passage of time, the politics of being asked your age, and the role of purchasing power in the pursuit of physical beauty.
How long is twenty years?
In the first part of this piece on ageing, I mentioned having enrolled in driving school within one day of being eligible. The year was 2007. We celebrated my driver’s licence with a family dinner. I remember cradling the rectangular piece of glossy plastic that is the licence, running my fingers over the text imprinted on it. The licence to drive a private vehicle in India is valid for 20 years from the date of issue, or until the holder turns 40 years old, whichever comes earlier. After the age of 40, the licence is issued only for 10 years and then for 5 years subsequently, a poignant reminder of an expected decline in sensory faculties as we age.
My licence, thus, was valid until the year 2027. I recall the odd sense of emptiness that filled me that evening. More than once, I remarked that I could barely envision my life so many years later—twenty years later! At the time, twenty years was longer than I had been alive. I had no measure for that immense duration of time. And, now, as I write this piece, we’re nearing 2024. Much of that inconceivable expanse of time has passed. I couldn’t have foreseen anything about the life that was yet to unfold for me. I had no plans in particular, not even a blueprint; a long, gaping period of time stretched out before me until the year 2027.
Reams have been written on how life passes you by, yet there’s nothing like finding yourself at the other end of what you thought was forever.
You don’t like my profile picture?
One day, I received a (presumably) flirtatious text from someone I hadn’t spoken to in a while. There’s a reason why I tell you about the flirtatious intent of the text—it was meant to be playful, lighthearted, flattering, all such things you’d associate with flirtatious banter. Unfortunately, the exchange quickly devolved into the person commenting on my WhatsApp profile picture, which at the time, had been taken four years earlier. I hadn’t considered updating my photo in a while—I’m not the type to update my WhatsApp profile picture four times a day; believe me when I tell you that that type exists. The picture was a blurry one of a rare moment in which my dog had decided to reciprocate my hug with a smile on his face. Anyone with a canine companion must know how rare this is!
The said person jokes that I should stop “misleading” people with an obviously outdated profile picture, because I couldn’t possibly still be as young as I look in the photo. Whatever its intent, that joke was no joke. Let’s overlook their audacity for a moment, and focus on the word ‘misleading’. The photo was an incredibly sweet one of a moment I’d like to remember forever—you know that that stuff is timeless, but that isn’t even the point. I was misleading people by simply…ageing, existing? Why does an indication of my youthfulness or its lack thereof either tempt or repel someone? The number of times women are chided to quit leading men on by looking the way they do is simply shameful, yet when you fail to be tempting enough, you’re shamed for that, too. You must look a certain way so that you tempt some and repel some, all at the same time, and then also remember to routinely update your picture so that it accurately reflects your age, lest you mislead an unsuspecting onlooker.
The skin in the beauty game
In the nefarious world of skincare, men and women can never be equal. Men are believed to age well; the references to wine and salt and pepper are infinite. Women can age if they must, but the passage of time and the pull of gravity cannot have had any effect on them. If there’s one thing you can’t do, it is to not age, so why not get women to start trying to do that?
I can’t think of a single retinol serum that’s marketed exclusively to men. For the uninitiated, retinol is a derivative of Vitamin A, commonly added to skincare products because it’s probably the only chemical ingredient with some clinical evidence of its “anti-ageing” effects. The skincare industry is burgeoning with retinol-infused products, and countless women have gladly signed up to waste hours, days and years of their life trying to look like they haven’t aged.
The pandemic changed many things, one of which was to limit the scope of in-person interactions to the length and breadth of our face. That’s when the skincare and makeup maximalists squirmed their way out of the screens and into our psyche.
Earlier this year, in preparation for a trip to the US, I compiled a list of the various skincare and makeup items that I wanted to pick up during my visit. While reviewing the list, I happened to strike off almost all the items, one after the other, because I realised that all of them are now available in India. When I last travelled to the US in 2020, just before the pandemic, none of these products were available here.
Since then, the number of items I slather on my skin may have reduced, but the beauty industry has expanded exponentially. Until three years ago, most of my friends didn’t understand the complexities of makeup and skincare, often marvelling at my ‘collection’. Today, I can’t think of very many people who won’t be able to offer a cogent explanation of what retinol and niacinamide and primer and lowlight can do for you. In the guise of having attained ‘expertise’ and each our own collection of beauty products, we have morphed into faithful memory keepers of marketing claims.
Influencer marketing has acquainted all and sundry with the indispensability of a skincare routine. Keep it sweet and simple, they urge you. Retinol is a must. Vitamin C is essential. Sunscreen is non-negotiable. Of course, you can never skip moisturiser. And you need three different types of face wash. One for when you wear makeup, one for when you don’t, and one for either of those scenarios.
Does it look like I’m wearing makeup?
I started wearing makeup when I was eleven, which is shockingly early by Indian standards. Girls were discouraged from wearing makeup (I was shamed for wearing eyeliner to school), because it was deemed an unnecessary indulgence. The market for makeup in India was small back then, with no more than two or three brands leading the show.
Even now, in the age of excess, it’s the no-makeup makeup look that’s most coveted. It’s all about spending time and money on makeup to look like you’re wearing none. Doesn’t this mirror the contrast between nudity and nakedness? Nudity is but an artful representation of nakedness, a mere simulation, but never the real deal.
We believe we’re simply talking about innocuous things like makeup and skincare, but we’re doing something far more insidious—breeding a culture of hypocrisy, one that values authenticity in appearance but not in essence.
Cosmetic procedures, a personal choice?
When everyone’s got makeup, what do you have to set yourself apart? Say hello to lip fillers, the new lipstick.
In the last couple of years, skin clinics have started mushrooming in my neighbourhood. Within a one-kilometre radius of where I live, there are at least twelve new skin clinics offering services like dermal fillers, botox, chemical peels, skin resurfacing, laser facials, eyebrow lifts, chin transplants and whatnot. The services advertised on the storefront are loud, clear, indiscreet, and inviting. Most of these clinics are run by certified dermatologists, who seem to have struck gold because doctors no longer have to wait to treat an occasional illness—they are now treating the essence of existence, the unequivocally inevitable: the effects of ageing.
Sometime in 2021, I visited a dermatologist for (another) crippling outbreak of hand eczema. Interestingly, the eczema has always chosen to situate itself in and around the index finger of my ‘write’ hand. Perhaps the rash rushes to my rescue when it finds that I’m a little too afraid of my own words.
In the dingy waiting room of the clinic, crammed with anti-maskers (actually, there’s no such thing here—they simply didn’t care enough to mask up appropriately), I noticed that I was the only one waiting to see the doctor for a ‘real’ skin concern. All the others were in line for routine cosmetic procedures, waiting upon their turn to be strategically dehumanised in the doctor’s chair, to be reduced from a whole person to a mere “patient”, all in the pursuit of physical beauty.
If at all public figures and social media influencers dare to comment on cosmetic beauty treatments, they make sure to attach an inclusive disclaimer that they stand for the freedom of choice. Some claim that they would never lift their brows or fill their cheeks, but that they have nothing against those who do. Then there are those who plump their lips on repeat (because dermal fillers dissolve every few months, you find yourself caught in a rut), but claim that this is simply a matter of personal choice and they urge no one to ascribe to their standard of beauty. Then there’s the third category, the best of all. One fine day, they show up with visibly plumped lips and straightened hair and whitened teeth and smoothed skin, as if beauty sleep worked its magic and they “woke up like this”.
There are also enough cosmetic enhancements that have been so normalised that we no longer consider them worthy of discussion—hair colouring, teeth straightening, body hair removal, and weight loss. Some of these treatments blur the lines between ‘health’ and beauty, cleverly redeeming themselves in the eyes of the sceptic.
I’m going to add my two cents to the discourse on ‘choice’. Whenever an individual (including myself, of course) chooses to undergo a beauty treatment that brings them closer to the implicitly agreed upon beauty standard, they are, knowingly or otherwise, reifying what the collective defines as beautiful. I may wear a ton of makeup to look like I’m wearing none, but I dare not walk around telling people that this is simply a matter of choice. Standards of beauty aren’t set by the innocuous eyes of the beholder. They are largely arbitrary, predominantly shaped by market incentives, and enabled by purchasing power. You can’t buy makeup without money. You can’t get fillers without much more money. And, so, if you’re choosing to get fillers and claiming that it’s simply your choice to get them and someone else’s choice not to, then you’re mistaken. Imagine a person (woman) who won’t get fillers, who won’t wear makeup, who won’t colour their hair, who won’t remove their body hair. What will you call such a person (woman)? Bold, radical, commendable, exceptional—everything but normal. The barefaced aesthetic is an aesthetic after all. Every type of look is a political statement as much as it is a personal choice. And, so, do we really have a choice? Aren’t we simply choosing from what’s already been chosen for us?
There’s a difference between looking, feeling and being older
A couple of months ago, a cousin who was moving to NY for business school announced that he would be gone for at least four years, after which he may consider returning to India. In response I said, “Wow, four years is a really long time! I’ll be nearly 40 years old then (I’ll be between 38 and 39, which, right now, feels as good as being 40).” He responded, “Oh, don’t worry, you can always get botox”.
Except, I wasn’t talking about my fear of looking forty. I was only commenting on how much more of life will have passed me by. I’m afraid that the world doesn’t make that distinction when it comes to women. But, of course, I may need botox and retinol and laser and whatever else the burgeoning dermatology clinics will want to sell me.
I imagine myself, some years later, hesitantly considering the inexhaustible list of beauty services I can avail of, wondering if I really need what I want, or if it’s always been the other way round.
How old am I, you ask?
Earlier this year, while celebrating my birthday, someone I know well (who is also much older than me), asked me how old I am. While the adage recommends never to ask a woman her age, I don’t subscribe to what sounds like pure, unadulterated sexism. I’m happy to be asked my age. When I responded, she exclaimed, “Gosh, thirty-four! You don’t look a day over eighteen”.
Here’s what I think:
Firstly, I surely look several days over eighteen.
Secondly, I never believed thirty-four to be so advanced an age to warrant such a dramatic reaction.
Thirdly, even if I were seventy-four or eight-four, why the need to assure me that I look younger? What’s wrong with being a certain age when you most certainly are that age, let alone looking the age that you are? Are we ever going to stop fetishising youthfulness in women?
A few months later, another middle-aged woman happened to ask me my age. I responded most matter-of-factly, and she remarked, “Really? You look no older than 28”.
What’s this compliment intended as reassurance that’s offered to women? Are they trying to tell you that it’s not as bad? Or that there’s still hope? Because what is it, really?
So, what does ageing look like?
It’s been some years since I first discovered the numerous streaks of silver in my dark hair. Until then, I had failed to notice the many ways in which time had been swiftly but silently conspiring against me. And, then, suddenly, at age thirty, it hit me like a freight train.
As I lifted a tuft of hair away from my scalp and peered into the freckled mirror tacked to the bathroom wall, the heft of lost time dawned on me. It didn’t matter that I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life; I was never afraid of the ticking of that biological clock, because it only ever threatened to rob me of that which I’m sure I didn’t want.
What’s one more streak of silver when I have so many already? It’s only the first few that hit you the hardest. Now, when I pull my hair back in a way that gives me a natural facelift, the many whites peek through. They are no longer to be severed or covered; the lights (whites) are a part of me, just like the dark hair once was.
Let me conclude with a perk about ageing, as promised in the title—in your 30s, you stop worrying about the things that plagued you in your 20s. Compulsive list-maker that I am, I made a list for both these categories. Many of the items on the list are, for once, too “personal”, but here’s an edited version of that list for your perusal:
Things I didn’t worry about in my 20s:
Dry feet (I’ve had only two pedicures in my entire life)
Thinning hair (the hair on my head used to weigh me down)
Not being able to dress as I like (I was freer in mind, body, spirit)
Driving around the city (I was less fearful)
The potential onset of disease with advancing age
The bureaucratic hassle of having to renew my driver’s licence
Things I don’t worry about in my 30s:
Acne (clear skin is the gift of age)
Wasting time with the wrong people (eliminated them—figuratively, of course!)
Not knowing what I want to do as a writer (my path is now clearer than ever)
My biggest concern with ageing is that each day of my life looks the same. Sometimes that’s great, sometimes not. From 2020 to 2023, I may not have come as far as three years, you know. Certainly not as far as the beauty industry has!
On occasion, when I find myself marching to the culinary rhythm of the everyday, bending over the kitchen counter, draining the tofu, chopping the scallions, and ripping the basil leaves, I ask myself, do I measure out my life in ladles and bowls? I didn’t particularly enjoy T.S. Eliot when I first read him. But god, has he grown on me!
What are your apprehensions about growing old, and do you ever wonder if you’re past your prime?
Oh my god Richa this is just SO GOOD! I want to quote 15 different lines in this post. All so real and so true. Concepts that I've been grappling with so much since I turned 30 as well. As always I am grateful for your writing and point of view <3
As a man, no one cares about how I look, unless I look a bit too much out of the ordinary (e.g. when I had coloured hair or when I was 95kg). It's a bit lonely, but it's so much better than *everyone* having an opinion on how I should look. It's insane how constant the opining on women's bodies is.
For me, being occasionally told that I look younger than my age makes me very happy, but that is because it comes as a rare occasion. Like you said, if it was coming constantly, it would feel like reassurance, as if aging is the worst thing that can happen to you, even though it happens to everyone.