I treated myself to a really expensive facial this week. A ludicrous amount. As a treat. But also, I treat myself so much it’s basically a lifestyle. * Sunglasses on *. 

Spending a week’s worth of Sydney rent on a facial is definitely outrageous. But when the world feels like it’s falling apart sometimes you just want someone to massage goo into your face while Relaxing Spa Music Volume III drifts from the speaker.
For me, it’s a form of self-care and relaxation, when I can afford it and when I feel I deserve it. And this recent appointment was with a new place I found that did something called a ‘Hydrafacial’.
It sounded positively ominous but came with the promise that I would have my life changed.

…by a facial?

Hey, life-changing things happen to people all the time, in ways we never expect. Maybe this Hydrafacial really would change my life.

(Spoiler Alert: It didn’t.)

But it was a nice experience all the same.
And my skin does actually look fucking incredible.

But it got me thinking, again, about something that’s been swirling in my brain a lot lately.
And this is probably definitely a result of having some level of body dysmorphia, particularly around my face, and noticing the small but steady changes in my appearance as I stunningly and bravely push on further into my thirties.

Not that I really have a choice.

Because the lengths that we will go to – especially women –  to maintain or achieve a youthful appearance are numerous.
With the most extreme obviously being drastic plastic surgery.
But many young people without so much as a crow’s pinky toe on their face are now opting to get things like botox, lip fillers and non-surgical face lifts.
What used to be the exclusive realm of the rich and famous has now turned into a walk-in appointment after morning yoga.

I’m not saying this to throw judgment. Everyone has a right to do whatever they want with their own bodies.

I guess I would challenge ourselves to ask:
Is this really what I want?

Figuring out what you really want can get difficult. Because if you do it honestly, it can bring up some painful stuff.
Things your family might have said to you at a young age, causing you to obsess over what you look like because you didn’t have the tools to learn how to process it in a healthy way.
An experience with a partner or friend where you were made to feel like you had to look a certain way to be worthy of love.
Magazines or social media plastered with headlines crying out in disgust at the flaps, folds and fine lines that appear with age.

And we, as a society, are positively terrified of aging.
The beauty and cosmetic industry worldwide generates nearly $700 billion. Every product promises a reduction in the signs of aging; plumper, fuller complexions, soft, smooth and dewy skin. All these products that claim to work, yet we continue to throw money at more and more when our expectations are not met, and even more as the clock keeps tickin.

Part of this obsession, I think, is also because youth is beautiful. As in, being a youth. It’s a time of exploration, making mistakes, so many firsts – first love, first kiss, first time.
The unfortunate reality is that oftentimes we are actually too young to recognise and soak in the moments when they happen.
When we get older and adult life and responsibilities (for most) kick in, we are nostalgic for those days. We wish we could go back.

Well, we can’t rewind how old we are, or stop time, no matter how much face cream and serum and toner we buy or how many surgeries we get. Our birth certificate remains the same.

We are the age we are – this ain’t no Benjamin Buttonverse. We begin dying the moment we are born. Time comes for us all and death is the friend that accompanies us each step of the way.
But it’s the way we perpetuate this narrative amongst ourselves that continues to throw fuel onto the cosmetic fires and clouds us with a smokeshow (ha) of doubt. 

An example.
Sometimes, when strangers find out how old I am, they exclaim that they thought I was much younger. This is often accompanied by a sense of admiration and adulation, like I’ve ‘beaten the system’ somehow. But what am I supposed to look like, for my age?
And that’s the thing we always say, isn’t it?
“X looks so good for their age!”
“Z really doesn’t look their age…”
Do we all have some sort of unconscious matrix in our head that we pull out when we have to rate someone’s appearance?
Are we all using the same matrix?
How did I learn about the matrix?
Where did the matrix actually come from?

I’m learning to grasp two strings at once to find my way to my truths. And many things can be true at once.

On one string – I am a human being in a society that champions looks over substance.
Even when the media “celebrates” women who boldly reject the matrix, the very fact that it’s highlighted as ‘a breath of fresh air’ still further deepens the structures. It’s calling out an unconformity in an insidiously subtle and clever way, possibly in an attempt to retain the stronghold on the narrative by taking control of the individual story in a way that looks positive.

Think about the attention on Pamela Anderson recently. She doesn’t wear (much) makeup anymore.
It’s. A. Huge. Deal.
She is so stunning, and so brave.
She had an amazing performance in Gia Coppola’s The Last Showgirl – which actually expressed some of the themes I’m touching on – but this was talked about not nearly as much as her bare face at the award shows and premieres.
(It is even more fascinating considering that Pam was the poster girl of plastic surgery and heavy makeup and an image of peak HOTNESS in the 90s. And in fact, maybe that’s why the media keeps banging on about it, because of the seemingly drastic change from how our collective celebrity psyche recalls her).

But the deeply complex and contradictory nature of the media is that the next story that pops up will most certainly be derisive of another’s appearance – maybe a young up and coming pop star they are looking to tear down.
But we’re so used to it we don’t see how hypocritical everything is that’s happening around us.
So we keep buying.
And suffering.

Really, we should be taking the fact that someone who is nearly 60 and chooses not to wear make up entirely in our stride if we genuinely want to normalise these things. Why carry on about something if we want it normalised?
But I recognise that creating lasting change (i.e. normalising) does involve leaders and champions to pave the way for others to follow.
Growth and progress in this world are complicated like that.
We have to be brave enough to step outside of the matrix and forge those paths ourselves.

The other string that I follow is, outside of the matrix that’s been wired into me in so many ways, what do I really care about? Is it really about my looks? Is it really about other people’s looks (and my looks compared to theirs?) I am in constant opposition with myself and the world but I don’t have to be. I can just be…me.

Still figuring all that out. It can be a joy as much as it can be an ordeal. That’s life I guess.

If we are simply ourselves, in the truest and most real sense, what can be more normal than that?

Everything else is just fluff. And is that really what we’re here for?