Don't worry about your wrinkles, mummy.
With a feeling close to resignation, I lift a jar from the bathroom shelf. It was a freebie - I didn't go out and buy it! This winter has dried my skin out in a way that can only be symptomatic of age. The number of years I lay claim to doesn't bother me, but dry skin itches, and while I don't believe in the benefits of anti-ageing creams, at least it should moisturise my skin. I dab my finger into cold, clinging whiteness and start to rub it into my face.
"What are you doing mummy?" my daughter asks. Eight going on eighteen, endlessly questioning, endlessly arguing. I like that she wants to know everything and has a spark, but sometimes her stubborness is overwhelming. She gets that from me though. "Trying to soothe a few wrinkles, honey."
"Oh, but wrinkles don't matter. Everyone gets those."
I make a face at my reflection, temporarily worsening the lines in my skin. I'm glad she has such a philosophical outlook on the realities of life. It's a good, sound mentality to have. "True."
"Besides, when you're dead, no-one will see your wrinkles."
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