I was lookin' back to see if you were lookin' back at me to see me lookin' back at you

I was. Looking back at me that is. At the blooming hairdressers yesterday.

Getting a haircut is a once a year job for me, mainly because it's so expensive and I really don't care that much - a quick hack of the fringe with the kitchen scissors suffices. I'd forgotten how I hate the whole process, the hair wash was nice and the head massage dreamy but then having to sit in front of myself for over an hour was awful. I can't look at me, I don't recognise the older me staring back. The one with the bags under her eyes, the wrinkles, deep grooves if I smile and grey, sallow skin. I looked down at the floor only to be politely told to keep my head up, so I settled on shutting my eyes, feigning tiredness and listened the the banal talk of the salon.

I'm trying to reflect on my reflection, what it is I don't like, why I'm shocked that the ageing process has taken hold - even my hands have brown age spots and are dry and wrinkly. It is only to be expected, reaching 40 years old this year and having spent most of my life outdoors, abroad and without sun protection. I wouldn't want to look 20 anyway, all pert and bouncy.

I suppose I need to learn to love my wrinkles and creases, the plum-red thread veins and patchy brown hands. I need to embrace the grey and not cover it, be proud I've made it this far with many a story to tell - and my body has been an excellent and most faithful vehicle enabling that, for which I am very grateful.

 (for you 90's people who were wondering what the song lyric was in the title of this post)