The Wrinkle Juggernaut

Not too long ago, I pulled into a parking lot and noticed a distinguished elderly woman in the passenger's seat of the car parked next to mine. With a small mirror in one hand and a large pair of tweezers in the other, she had been plucking her chin hairs. When she saw me look over, she quickly put them down and smiled.

I wanted to say, "Pluck away,Sister, pluck away."

Though I haven't sprouted those billy goat hairs yet, I use the natural daylight to weed out the gray hairs that have miraculously formed my first silver halo. Now, the old eyeballs need as much light as possible to see and I admit, I've passed hours waiting for the kids by plucking gray hairs and inspecting the wrinkles in parking lots across the country.

When the kids were younger and didn't know any better, I tried paying them a buck for every gray hair they successfully plucked from the back of my head. But using tweezers requires great skill and patience, something which they hadn't yet acquired. Every gray hair that was freed came at the expense of several clumps of brown ones. I was worried that I'd look like one of those baby dolls that had most of their locks yanked out by naughty little girls, leaving little wispy bits of hair on an otherwise bald plastic head. By the time their dexterity improved, it was too late. They thought it was disgusting.

"I feel like we're gorillas" said teen girl.

"Well, they groom each other seem to be quite happy," I said, urging her to take the tweezers.

"That's 'cause they're looking for bugs."

Point noted.

But I don't like my gray hairs. Or wrinkles. Full stop. There. I've said it. If I could magically erase all signs of aging, I'd be singing in the streets. Doing cartwheels. Streaking in delight through the streets of Sandwich. But unless I discover the Fountain of Youth, there is no stopping that juggernaut.

I can take a few wrinkles, a spray of gray and even a few liver spots. But let's stop right there. No more. As my nephew likes to say, "I'm all set, thank you."

With my pale complexion, I just don't look like a silver fox. I look like an middle aged Mom who couldn't be bothered grabbing a box of Clairol when she was picking up pads for a leaky bladder. I have a few pewter haired friends who simply look radiant and almost seem to glow in a metallic aura. Their hair is soft, shiny and sassy. They bounce around town with unbridled confidence, looking like urban sophisticates.

My grays are so brittle that I thought about sending them to Brillo-maybe they'd launch a natural scrubbing line. Seriously, imagine the extra income I 'd pull in.

I have so many gray hairs that pulling out all of those wiry buggers would be like using an eyelash separator to rake my lawn soI've given up until my hairdresser waves the white flag and says, "Blond Honey, Number 36."

But if the grays aren't bad enough, the wrinkles are what keep me in the crowded aisles of CVS for hours, squinting, trying to read about Retinol A, glycolic acid and skin bleaching formulas. I used to laugh at those old Porcelana ads, but now, a plastic tub sits dutifully next to my reading glasses and eye cream on my bedside table. All I need now is a tub of Vick's.

How time flies.

I remember discovering my first 'wrinkle' when I was 25 in the woman's restroom of the Plaza Hotel in New York City. It's a good thing that I had downed a few vodka and tonics because it gave me quite a startle. I thought I'd never age, be one of those miraculously tight skinned women in the movies that somehow dodged wrinkles. But when I look back, they were hairline cracks, a mere tease of the bigger faults that were ready to erupt.

I know some people say, "I've earned every one of these wrinkles." Well, so have I, but please isn't there a wrinkle bank somewhere where I can transfer these crow's feet?

This is one time I'd rather not be paid for parenting; for worrying about diaper rash, teething or college tuition.

Nope. I'll gladly fret for free.

A few of my friends have shelled out thousands on laser treatments for wrinkles and chin hair but since the only laser I can afford is one of those pointers used by professors and pranksters, I'm stuck with over the counter products and anything I can mix up in my kitchen. (Mango and Papaya make a great facial mask, but don't walk outside when the bees are hot on pollen- not a favorable mix)

I thought briefly about not laughing anymore since I've got a highway of smile lines. Perhaps I should have adopted the Larchmont Lockjaw- those old New York faces don't move when they talk or laugh...just a low hee, hee, hee. I tried it once and looked like I belonged in a suburban horror movie

So I'm throwing in my white towel now.

Give me those laugh lines, toss me some crow's feet and throw in some chin hairs.

I'll laugh all the way to the bank.