When I was in my late teens and early twenties I rather liked my reflection in the mirror. I don’t mean that I imagined I was hot stuff. More that I had a nice smile, a petite elf like face and good skin.

Recently I had a bad haircut. This haircut has become like an avalanche taking down my confidence with it.

Let me start from the beginning. I was 35 weeks pregnant with Wonder Girl and I decided a nice shiny new haircut would be a good idea. I felt rather whale like and as the only bit of me even close to normal size was my head, it seemed sensible to focus on my hair.

The first mistake I made was letting a local mum, who works as a hairdresser from home, cut it. I asked for a shoulder length bob. I got a razored cut of many different lengths. The back looked like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards.

It was literally the worst haircut I had ever had! I lived with it for a few days. I decided I would be a hat wearer. Then I imagined my first pictures with my new baby, with this horrible haircut. After that I cried more than I’d like to admit and booked myself an appointment at an actual hairdressers with premises.

The hairdresser was pretty shocked that someone apparently trained to cut hair had managed to achieve such a terrible look. The only way to salvage it, a drastically shorter cut to get rid of the razored mess my barnett had become.
This is how I ended up with a short bob. It looks fine, I get compliments even, but I don’t really like my hair this short.

This new haircut prompted me to spend rather more time than usual looking in the mirror. Gosh what a shock it was to find crow’s feet, and other wrinkles on my once unblemished skin. I have this weird brown patterning that I recognise from looking at older women, only now it’s on my face.

Also to add to my delight I appear to have rather more chins than I remember from ten years ago. More I have a chin under-hang. I don’t need this extra flesh and it rather reminds me of a goose.

You are probably reading this in horror at my vanity. I know, I know, crows feet are a sign of laughter. Confidence in my appearance will apparently shine through so I have to learn to love this gradual decline.

I have made my living in part from my appearance. It’s hard to go from smiling on stage, head to foot in Lycra, to hiding on the school run because you forgot to apply your make up.

I decided to have a chat with a slightly older woman who I consider to be growing old gracefully. She hasn’t hit Marks and Spencer yet, and I think she looks great.

She told me this. The simple fact is we look our very youthful best in our late teens and early twenties. After that you have a choice, either spend time and energy craving that youth and mourning it’s loss. Or don’t, enjoy what you do have and don’t sweat it.

This struck me as so true. I’m only thirty (something) and I’m already worried. I have decades ahead(hopefully) in which I could get my knickers in a twist about all this. Or I could be enjoying myself, regardless…
Appearance is such a small part of life. Youth is such a tiny window in that life. I don’t want to buy into the modern obsession with clinging onto it.

So this is me. I live, I laugh and I love. Every blemish and wrinkle is a testament to that.

My vow from here and now is to hold onto that thought. I’m sure I will still look in the mirror and be less than thrilled with what I see from time to time. Those feelings are going to be as tiny and unimportant as they should be. I’d love to hear from you about this