Why, oh why, do we spend so much time, money, Polyfilla, unguents and injections trying to persuade those who see us – and our friend/enemy, the mirror – that we are caught in amber and never getting a moment older?
I am writing this in the full knowledge that I am just as guilty, every bit as vain, as the next man – or woman! I continue to bathe my tresses in secret and magic potions in order to continue the illusion that I am a true red-head, rather than the mousy-brown-segueing-into-grey reality; though, being essentially honest (not to say blunt), I then undo the illusion by telling everyone that I dye my hair! Duh!
But my new mirror is not of the flattering, arse-licking variety – and, when I gaze into its mysterious shallows, I am confronted by the truth: A face which is more used road map than…
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