Mama’s Got a Brand New Face
I could sand down every rough edge on my body but I’d still be taking up space.
Liz Sarb (& Mary Oliver, my queen)
My kids are obsessed with my moles. (Is that a weird way to start an essay? Oh well!) They trace them with their fingers as they ask me what they are. “Moles!” I say, every time. “Hahahahaha,” they laugh. “Moles!!” Just you wait, I think to myself, as I look at their similarly mole-covered father. The other day I noticed that a new one had appeared on my daughter’s chin. [Ed. note: over the course of writing this essay, this turned out to be a speck of dirt. How often do I bathe my kids? Don’t worry about it!]
If the thought of moles makes you feel nauseous, and it’s starting to for me, I’m sorry. I’ll move on soon.
Last summer, a dermatologist removed two from my face, leaving in their place shallow craters that look a bit like chickenpox scars. My three-year-old pressed on my scars and asked, “What happened, mama?” I told her that a doctor removed the moles because they could make me sick. This was a lie. I elected to have them removed because I saw a professional photo of myself in which I looked like a witch.
“So…they just came off?” she asked.
“…Yes,” I replied.
“And then you can just take your whole face off and get a new face!” she said, triumphantly.
Oh dear, I thought.
And also, if only.
Much has been written about the correlation of pandemic-induced video meetings and the rise in spending on Botox, skincare, and other cosmetic interventions. In my case, the constant FaceTimes and Zooms felt like an education in just how little I knew my own face. That’s what my mouth looks like when I’m speaking? And how many chins do I have?
Having two babies in relatively quick succession has added to my cognitive dissonance. Pregnancy and postpartum do a number on your body in the obvious ways (citation: my imploded core muscles) but also the weirdest. Did you know that your feet can both widen and flatten after pregnancy? That your teeth can shift? That your moles can grow? And then the kids learn to talk and roast you for it!!
I’ve made small efforts to feel more at home in my new, and newly scrutinized, body. My skincare shelf is overflowing. I learned how to remove the peach fuzz on my upper lip and invested in Invisalign to fix my ever-so-slightly crooked teeth. I’m considering getting more moles removed (though I’ll keep the one between my eyebrows; that’s where I keep my witch power). These are mild interventions. Have I thought about Botox? Of course! Have I considered a tummy tuck and boob lift? I’m a human woman! But I don’t have unlimited money, and that’s what will save me. If I could, I’d lift and tuck and pinch myself into oblivion.
I also feed into the self-improvement complex by trying to exercise each morning. It boosts my serotonin while checking “body torture for beauty” off my to-do list for the day. In 2022, I was training for a half marathon and thus had my body torture routine down to a science. Midway through the training, I smoked a 5k and came in first in my age group. That’s right: I basically won the race was the fastest middle-aged woman out of all the other middle aged women. I drove home basking in post-race euphoria, my #1! medal pinned to my shirt. And then, like a dummy, I checked the race photos. I felt like a gazelle while I was running. I looked like a raccoon. My sense of accomplishment evaporated, replaced by scrutiny of my too-thick legs, too-soft belly, and cheekbone-less face.
God bless the early Facebook days, when every night out was documented in a new album and we’d spend the next morning poring over the photos. The key was that the cameras were shitty and the screens were low-res, so everyone looked glowy and filtered. (Also, we were 20.) The cameras are merciless now. One wrong swipe and my phone captures an unholy image of my face, four chins deep, shot from below. Those pictures are hard to forget.
The professional photographers have it out for us, too. The images are too high-res and the lighting is too good. In the aforementioned witch photo from last year, I’m leaning over my daughter, embracing her as we both laugh. It’s the sweetest picture, or it would be if I could focus on anything other than my moles. And of course in this year’s photos, all I see are my scars. Luckily, there’s a quick fix: the dermatologist told me that I could simply have the scars lasered off. His eyes gleamed with dollar signs as I slowly backed out of the exam room.
I keep my insecurities to myself when my girls are around, as if I could possibly shield them from the laser focus on appearance that seems required of every woman. It soaks into us like arsenic into groundwater. My eldest has the most gorgeous curls and she’s told me many times that she wishes her hair was straight. Blasphemy!!! I want to scream, but I restrain myself. “Oh really? Why’s that?” I ask, ever so casually. “It’s just more beautiful! I want smooth hair like a princess!” she says. Curses on you, Disney, and a pox on all your streaming services. Back to hell where you came from, hair straightener. “Well, Elsa’s braid is held together by ice magic. It’s not realistic!” I reply. Perhaps I should write that down and tape it to my own mirror.
There’s no fix. I could sand down every rough edge on my body but I’d still be taking up space. I’ll just have to get used to it, at the very least so I can defend my girls against the beauty propaganda the world throws at them like knives at a target.
Speaking of Target, the newly expanded skincare department of my local store is crawling with tweens. Tweens today are light years away from my 1999 varietal, and I know I can’t begin to understand their inner lives, but I am certain that twelve-year-olds don’t need Vitamin C serum. But #brands will be #brands and they’ve figured out that the tweens have money, access to TikTok, and insecurities for days (just like their moms!). Paige and I sat near a group of them in Starbucks recently, with their pin-straight hair and glass skin, eyes glued to their phones as they silently sucked down their pink drinks. I observed them with dread, but to Paige, watching them with huge eyes, they looked like #goals. Like Disney princesses on a coffee date. Like her in just a few short years.
The other day, I came across this article: What a 37-Year-Old Face Actually Looks Like. The title alone should be enough to send the author and editor to jail. But if the jury is still not convinced, please, Your Honor, enter into evidence images 1-13—images that, I’d argue, are of at-max 25-year-olds. There is nary a wrinkle to be seen. Only the slightest of imperfections mar otherwise smooth, even-complexioned, ageless skin. Reading closely, I see that many of the 13 disclosed that they maintain their baby faces with Botox, fillers, and elaborate skincare routines. Ok—so actually is doing some extremely heavy lifting in that title, then. At least change it to We Found 13 Objectively Attractive 37-Year-Olds with Disposable Income and Lots of Free Time, Want To See Their Faces? It’ll Make You Feel Real Bad!!
[Important caveat here: I don’t judge anyone who does get Botox, fillers, or any other cosmetic intervention. It’s just not for me; I have neither the money nor the stamina for that amount of regular facial upkeep. I can barely brush my own teeth. So here I am, your local feminist crank, complaining that the playing field is uneven in a game I’ve chosen to sit out.]
Eventually, after scrolling through the article’s string of 25-year-olds in disguise, I came to the last photo of Claire, with (and I mean this with all love and respect) forehead creases, crow’s feet, and slightly off-white teeth. Finally, an actual 37-year-old face! I thought. And she’s so beautiful! Then I read the description. She’s thinking of getting Botox.
I chucked my computer into the sea. I built a cabin in the woods. After posting this essay, I will use an axe (I own axes now) to cut my internet cord. My girls are playing amidst the trees, covered in either moles or specks of dirt (who can say?) with their hair in waves and ringlets from the cool forest air. I smashed all our cameras. We’ll live out the rest of our days in a Mary Oliver cosplay, surrounded by wild geese and smooth stones and soft leaves. We’ll race each other up the hill out back and feel only self-acceptance at the summit.
