Bibi Lynch: ‘There’s a beauty in ageing.’
Photograph: Matthew Eades/Guardian
I didn’t know how I’d age. I had no idea what my face and skin would do. Most women glimpse that future in their mother’s face. But my mum died when she was 40, so I never saw her face – our face – age. What I did see, though, was my mum, twice a day, stand in front of the bathroom mirror and place a dot of white cream on her forehead, on her nose, on her chin, on her cheeks, and one dollop on the tip of my nose and rub the moisturiser in. Another guiding light came in the form of Jackie magazine. It instructed me on the twice-a-day cleanse, tone and moisturise routine, and it’s the only religion I’ve ever had. Since those days, I’ve gained the deepest lines around my eyes when I laugh. But that means I’ve laughed. My once-teenage smattering of cheek freckles has taken over my entire visage too. But that means the sun has kissed me over and over, the insatiable thing.
I’m 53, and my face finally makes sense. Is it bad to say I sort of like my face? Sort of like it very much? Not that it’s perfect, of course; mine is a nose only a parent could love (and not necessarily unconditionally). But I really do like it. And more so as I get older. I think my face is sort of beautiful. Not because the features are beautiful – don’t make me mention my jowls – but because there’s a beauty in ageing. We all know about the glow of youth, of course, but there’s an easy, radiating warmth in maturity that’s unmissable, too.
Accepting how you look, letting go of the angst at last, breathing out and allowing your face to relax into itself is incredibly attractive. Oh, I was so uncomfortable in my younger skin. I thought myself ugly. I’d hide my nose with my hand when talking to people. I’d try to cover those freckles up with foundation and my face would look like a giant digestive; and I truly put the trauma in T-zone by refusing to leave the flat if I had a spot. Thank God for my oily skin now, though, it’s given me fewer wrinkles than I deserve.
Who would ever think they’d be happier in their skin in their 50s? Not me. But here I am, with a new love of online makeup tutorials and excitedly awaiting the delivery of my new chocolate brown eyeliner. (At 53 I’ve learned black is too harsh for me.)
Beauty doesn’t end in mid-life. Nor does it end in your 60s, your 70s, or your 80s. It blossoms in new and unimagined ways. You’re kind to your skin and, most importantly, you’re kind to yourself. No, you don’t look the same as you did in your 30s. Good! I was miserable with how I looked in my 30s. Getting older throws up all sorts of unexpected realisations – but, for me, none quite as unexpected as sort of really liking my face.
Photography: Matthew Eades
Styling: Steph Stevens; makeup: Jose Bass; hair: Jamie McCormick
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