I give you an excerpt from How to be a Woman by Caitlin Moran, a bad ass British feminist:
“My Subconsious Conspiracy Theory about age denial is that women are, as I’ve said, generally deemed to start going ‘off the boil’ in their mid thirties. This is the age fertility declines, and the Botox and the fillers start to kick in. This is when women go into their savings accounts and start spending all their pension to remove these signs and pretend they’re 30 again.
“Given this, my Subconscious Conspiracy Thery would like to point out that your midthirties – by way of a massive coincidence – is the age that women usually start to feel confident.
“Having finally left behind the – let’s be frank – awfulness of your twenties (You had sex with Steve. Steve! “Beaver-face” Steve! You had that job where you were so bored, you hid in a cupboard and ate small pieces of paper! THERE WAS THE SUMMER OF CULOTTES); your thirties are the point where the good stuff finally kicks in.
“You’re probably doing pretty well at your job by now. You’ve got at least four nice dresses. You’ve been to Paris and experimented with anal sex and know how to repressurize your boiler and can quote bits of The Wasteland when you’re making Whiskey Macs.
“How odd, then, that as your face and body finally begin to display the signs (lines, softening, gray hairs) that you’ve entered the zone of kick-ass eminence and intolerance of dullards, there should be pressure for your to… totally remove them. Give the impression that, actually, you are still a bit sullible and incompetent, and totally open to being screwed over by someone a bit cleverer and older than you.
“I don’t want that. I want a face full of frown lines and weariness and cream-colored teeth that, frankly, tells stupid and venal people to FUCK OFF. I want a face that drawls – possibly in the voice of James Cagney, although Cagney from Cagney & Lacey will do – ‘I’ve seen more recalcitrant toddlers/devious line managers/steep mountain passes/complicated dance routines on Parappa the Rapper/bigger sums than you’ll ever see in your life, sunshine. So get out of my special chair and bring me a cheese sandwich.’
“Line and grayness are nature’s way of telling you not to fuck with someone – the equivalent of the yellow-and-black handing on a wasp, or the markings on the back of a black widow spider. Lines are your weapons against idiots. Line are you ‘KEEP AWAY FROM THE WISE INTOLERANT WOMAN’ sign.
“When I get ‘old’ (59 – I reckon 59 is old), I personally intend to bomb around town with white hair fully two feet wide, looking like one of the Wile Women of Wonga, SHOUTING about how I can feel my cells dying and ordering doubles to help me forget it. I’m not going to spend £50,000 on dying my hair, pumping up my tits, resurfacing my face, and pretending I’m a dewy virgin shepherdess, off to seek my first tumble at the bridal fair.
“Because there is an unspoken announcement commensurate with that look. Women who’s had the needle, or the knife, look like they’re saying, ‘My friends are not my friends, my men are unreliable and fainthearted, my lifetime’s work counts for nothing, I am 59 and empty handed. I’m still as defenseles as the day I was born. PLUS, I’ve now spunked all my yatch money on my arse. By any sane index, I have failed at my life.'”
Seriously. I want to be like her when I grow up.