I’ve been watching the brilliant comedy series The Larry Sanders Show (it aired between 1992-1998 and is now on HBOMax), which is as wildly sexist and ageist as it is hilarious. On the show, 70 is the new 90; in other words, to the 30-, 40-, and 50-year-old characters, people in their seventies—so people my age—are physically and intellectually decrepit. I find this even more offensive than the sexism. Because though I’m not decrepit yet in any way obvious to me, I am old; I just don’t feel old. I wrote about the predicament for O, The Oprah Magazine on the occasion of turning 60, which at the time I quaintly thought was old. Here’s the story:
Yes, in a few weeks, I become a sexagenarian—and despite my optimistic nature, I suspect that sounds a lot more promising than it is.
Not long ago, I was trying to explain to a 45-year-old friend what it feels like to be my age. "It's like this," I said. "I'm going to tell you something about yourself that you don't know, and it's incontrovertibly true no matter what else you believe."
"Okay," she said.
I looked at her hard. "You were born in 1950," I said. "You're actually 60." My friend gave me the kind of blank stare you get when something does not compute. "Well, that just doesn't make any sense," she said.
Exactly. The age I am is not the age I feel. And I'm pretty sure that if you're close to 60 or older, you understand the disconnect. It's not uncommon. In a 1995 study of Americans between 55 and 74, most of them felt 12 years younger than they actually were. Studies in Germany and China have yielded similar results.
As you might guess, one of the most important factors in feeling youthful is good health, or at least a sense of control over your health. If you can exercise and generally kick up your heels without throwing out your back or breaking your legs, naturally, you feel more vigorous than your neighbor who has trouble hauling himself out of a chair. It also helps if you spend your days among younger people.
In many ways, feeling younger than your age is a good thing. Research shows that it can have a positive effect on confidence about cognitive abilities (the sort of confidence I could use the next time I search for my glasses and find them on my nose). And people who feel younger than they are, are less likely to die than same-age peers who actually feel that age.
But there's a wrinkle below the surface of this encouraging news.
If you're a woman, when you get to be 60 (or almost) and begin noticing the disconnect between how old you feel and how old you look, you start to think differently about your face. And by "differently" I mean that you suddenly have to make now-or-never decisions about how much control you want to exert over it. You can decide that you want to try to hold on to your youth by any means possible (in which case surgery will be involved). You can decide that you'll only tinker with the aging process, feeling your way day by day (there are copious options, from microdermabrasion to fillers, and Botox). You can decide to say the hell with it, and watch with brave astonishment as a mustache darkly embellishes your upper lip, your eyebrows gradually vanish, and you develop the jowls you fondly remember on your favorite uncle. Whichever route you follow, you have to take responsibility in a new way for your looks.
Did you know that some of the earliest plastic surgery was the reversal of circumcision on Jewish men who wanted to pass for gentile in Roman times? Plastic surgery in this country, too, was often originally about "passing," with immigrants wanting to change their features to conform to the status quo. And isn't it still often about passing? Older women (and men) yearning to pass for younger?
It's lovely if someone thinks I'm not yet 60 (which is happening less often; I appear to be gaining momentum on a downhill run). But I expect that as the body I live in continues to mature, I'll come to accept the duality of looking one age and feeling another—just as I have come to accept other strange and poignant aspects of the human condition, like our awareness of the raw irrefutability of death. It is what it is.
As for my face: I doubt I'll choose to do more than a bit of Botox and a regular flash of skin-toning laser. I've always wanted to look pretty, and I still want to, but age-appropriately pretty. So I'm not going to try to remodel my outside to correspond with how I feel inside. Because, bottom line, I don't really want to pass for anything but what I am.
Rereading this essay 10 years later, all I could think was, Do I sound smug or what? I remembered a reader who wrote and accused me of not understanding what it feels like to be truly miserable with your face. She was right. Which led me to think about why having some “work” done doesn’t necessarily conflict with learning how to see your face with loving awareness.
Maybe you read this essay and agreed that you don’t want to pass for anything other than what you are either! And you could see your way to loving your face—but you can’t get past your nose, or your non-existent chin, or the neck that’s choking you. If you’ve learned to de-objectify your face and still believe a surgical procedure is a kindness you can grant yourself, some research supports your choice, indicating that as long as your expectations are reasonable, you’re likely to feel slightly happier and more confident after surgery.
The thing is—and this is critical—you won’t necessarily be happier because you look more attractive, because maybe you will and maybe you won’t. Your pleasure will come from your own belief that you’re more attractive. And since confidence begets confidence, you may enjoy a cascade of positive effects thanks to your new conviction. This is a good time to point out a study that found the biggest correlation between beauty and success was not with objective but rather self-perceived attractiveness. So what contributes most impactfully to success? Confidence. And where you get yours from—choosing a flash of skin-toning laser or choosing a lower face-lift—doesn’t really matter, does it? As long as you thoroughly understand why you made your choice and you’re happy with it. Still, I’ll dutifully remind you that appearance is not a good stock in which to throw all your investments. It has a predictable payout—and one day, you’ll lose most of what you put into it. My best advice: If you’re going to play the game, keep your portfolio well diversified.
“Ask Val” answers your urgent questions, Vol. 9
This week, an old favorite. File this under “Department of Bad Advice.”
Yes, you, with the impressive biceps and a halo of split ends?
Q: I brush my hair 100 times a night, every night. Why isn’t my hair healthier?
A: Because in spite of the old 100-strokes-per-night advice, you should brush your hair minimally. Routine brushing damages the outer layer, or cuticle, of the strands, which can make hair look lusterless and frizzy, says dermatologist Paradi Mirmirani; better to use a comb with widely spaced teeth and smooth tips. But if you like the way a good brushing feels (I do), avoid boar bristles, which generate damaging friction; instead, choose a model with plastic, ball-tipped bristles. The Goody Ouchless Cushion Heads Down brush is a fine choice.
A stylist once gave me what might generously be called an "energetic" shampoo and said that since I get my hair washed in a salon only every five days or so, I should brush it daily to “distribute the oils on [my] scalp." (She also told me, with obvious concern, that my scalp felt "tight," which got me wondering about how loose a scalp should be. Not very, I decided.) But trichologist (hair specialist) Philip Kingsley says, "It's definitely bad to ever brush your hair vigorously. Hard brushing tends to scratch the scalp and will also tear out the hair and break it, particularly if it's long." It's fine to use a brush for styling purposes, he says, but not to distribute oils—because who wants oily hair? Dry hair is due to loss of moisture, not oil. You’re probably already using a conditioner after you shampoo; good work!
Val Asks You
Don’t be shy! What’s your most vexing or intractable appearance issue? Send me your beauty-related questions. If I don’t have a good answer, I’ll find someone who does.
According to Chinese culture, we're a year older due to being in the womb for a nearly a year so she'd actually say 'I'm a year younger" which makes no sense to me but then again, (my) mom was usually correct on most things. Regarding my mom (bless her soul), my 18 year old niece wore a traditional Chinese dress (cheongsam) that belonged to my mom for her high school graduation this past weekend. It makes me think that even as the people we love aren't here, they can be remembered in so many different ways and in that way, ageless.
My eyes appear smaller than they used to (I'm 65). What gives and what can I do?