As a white candle / In a holy place, / So is the beauty / Of an aged face
Look at Nicola Walker in 'Last Tango in Halifax.' She has the most wonderful face. You just want to look at her. And if she'd gone off and had Botox and facelifts, I wouldn't want to look at that face because it wouldn't express anything.
A woman, as much as a man, is responsible by the age of forty for the character of her face. But women, obeying the biological imperative, strive harder to preserve a youthful appearance (the reproductive look) and lose it sooner.
I've earned all these years on my face. I don't want to be a liar if in five or 10 years I do get some Botox, but needles in the face scare me, so I don't really know if I am ever going to do that.
My daddy's face is a study. Winter moves into it and presides there. His eyes become a cliff of snow threatening to avalanche, his eyebrows bend like black limbs of leafless trees. His skin takes on the pale cheerless yellow of winter sun; for a jaw he has the edges of a snowbound field dotted with stubble; his high forehead is the frozen sweep of the Erie.
The ravaged face in the mirror hides the enchanting youth that is the real me.
What's the point? My face, shall we say, looks lived in.
I sometimes apply eyeliner - Giorgio Armani Smooth Silk Eye Pencil in #1 Black - and smudge it with my fingers really quickly to give it a little lift, almost a cat eye. It's all about giving a lift now.
Of course one worries about getting older - we're all fearful of death, let's not kid ourselves. I'm simply not panicking as my laugh lines grow deeper. Who wants a face with no history, no sense of humor?
I'd like to grow old with my face moving.
If you're paralyzing your face in your 20s and 30s, you're not exercising the muscles that give it strength. My feeling is, laugh, cry, move your face.
