How am I supposed to age in a society that's de-ageing?

Or: how to be in your crone era

Sep 29, 2024

Disclaimer: the following post is an honest and personal essay sharing some of my looping thoughts, conflicting feelings and head-scratching dilemmas around cosmetic surgery, modern beauty standards, and feminism. It’s by no means an exhaustive or academic attempt to pin down such slippery topics. Much like my post on body image, my aim is to voice what we often keep hidden, open the door for discussion, and normalise not knowing the answers. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts…

If, like me, you are a 90s baby (or parented one), I want you to cast your mind back to portable CD players and Woolworth’s Top 40 shelves. It was a time of innocence; when palatable pop princesses and cute boy bands did carefully choreographed dance routines to PG-rated (although perhaps insidiously subtexted) songs.

That was until Christina Aguilera had a f*ck-the-system moment.

In October 2002, the release of Christina Aguilera’s second studio album, Stripped, unleashed something decidedly radical (along with lots of hand-wringing) on the global music scene. I didn’t know it—or really understand it—at the time, but this was my feminist awakening. I was obsessed.

Not that I was a particularly discerning 6-year-old, but I’d never really got on board with Christina’s ‘I’m A Genie’ phase. Perhaps on some level, I could sense its manufactured origins.

Notably, Stripped has Aguilera’s name in all the song credits. It was where we first heard her voice, in all its gravelly glory. Watching the ‘Can’t Hold Us Down’ video today (something I can now do without frantically scrolling between music stations on the telly), I’m struck by how ahead of its time the album was.

From sweat-dripping, swaggering anthems to big, soulful ballads, it’s an album with incredible range. And not just vocal and genre, but in the way the lyrics touch on so many themes that I don’t recall anyone else speaking about in the early noughties—sexism, female sexuality, unrealistic beauty standards, homophobia, domestic violence—especially not pop stars.

That album came out 22 years ago. And you know what’s really remarkable? Christina Aguilera doesn’t look a day over 22, the age she was when Stripped was released, either.

xtina

A post shared by @xtina

The de-aging of Christina Aguilera

The last time I checked up on Christina (via Instagram; a ritual I perform on a roughly annual basis with my favourite celebrities of yesteryear), she looked like a very glamorous woman in her forties. One with two kids and a glittering career behind her.

But something strange has happened. Aguilera appears to have managed what only Hermione Granger has before her: she has turned back time.

Now, there’s no denying that Christina looks hot. She’s also been very open about her beauty regimen and cosmetic procedures, her views on the scrutiny women face as they age, and her belief that choosing to use injectables is a “personal conversation”.

I agree. But also, I’m shook.

Without judging her as an individual, the Benjamin Button-ing of Christina Aguilera seems to signal the dawn of a new, ageless—and frankly, dystopian—era.

One where, as cosmetic surgery grows more sophisticated and Ozempic abounds, semi-retired pop stars can effectively resurrect their former, youthful selves. As if, like Sleeping Beauty, they had merely been frozen in time, waiting for the nostalgia cycle to bring them back for round two of fame and fortune.

I detest the “role model” burden successful women are often lumbered with, and I’m not cool enough to presume what Gen Z makes of Christina Aguilera (please tell me in the comments, guys). But I can’t help but question what kind of message this sends out to women who are meeting her for the first time.

That you can have a successful career at any age…as long as you look ageless.

That you can wear whatever you want at any age…as long as you are thin.

That you can show as much skin as you want at any age…as long as it’s wrinkle-, cellulite- and imperfection-free.

Or, if I’m really honest, what kind of message it sends out to me.

Because as I enter my thirties and grapple with the moral and existential panic over whether or not to get Botox, I can’t help but spiral.

The mess: to age or not to age, that is the question

I used to think that ageing naturally was the best way to age. But that was back when my cheeks were plumper and my forehead smoother. Before the weight started to drain out of my face and settle more easily on my hips. Before I began catching sight of my drawn, slightly sagging jowls in the upshot of car windows.

And I still want to age “gracefully”—as long as I don’t look older than everyone else.

When I tell my mum and boyfriend that I’m thinking of getting “a little Botox”, they scoff and tell me I don’t need it. What they don’t know is just how many people get Botox.

A bit like when I don’t put on any makeup and someone asks if I’m ill, I imagine there will come a time when someone kindly says “Are you alright? You look a bit tired” as I valiantly arrive at an event with my creaseless-skinned friends. And who will care about moral high grounds then? (not me)

The thing is, I’m pretty vain. I like making myself look nice. Clothes, hair, makeup, waxing, eyelash lifts and tints—all of it makes me feel good. I’m sure a little Botox would too.

But what scares me is The Line (and not just the one on my forehead).

When is something that costs hundreds of pounds a pop really that “little”? When does “baby” Botox turn into full-blown adult surgical procedures? And the most elusive, imperceptible line of them all: where does my innate drive for self-expression or self-care end, and society’s enduringly male gaze begin?

Make it make sense: the paradox of internalising the male gaze

I guess that’s why Christina Aguilera’s glowup (glow-back?) has rattled me so much.

On the one hand, I think women should have the freedom and power to decide what makes them feel good, and what they do with their bodies; I don’t believe in a feminism that’s prescriptive.

On the other hand, our decisions can’t be divorced from their context: a society that continues to raise the bar for female (and male) beauty standards, which have always felt impossible to reach, even before celebrities started reverse engineering themselves. That I find disempowering—because whose decision is it, really?

It feels like this central paradox of womanhood—which, after all the glossy ad campaigns celebrating silver-haired foxes, all the Instagram captions about #bodypositivity, I thought we’d made some progress with—shows no signs of letting up.

If as soon as science and technology present us with lunch break procedures and miracle drugs, we promptly forget all our moralising around diversity and natural skincare products, and sacrifice our principles to the pursuit of looking young and hot, then how flimsy was that progress in the first place?

Was any of it even real? Or was it just something we told ourselves when, with no alternatives, we had to quiet the deeper wound that so many of us carry of not being good enough?

The pressures women face, the value that is placed on our physical appearance, are deep-rooted. No matter how much we try to rationalise and reason ourselves out of that need to be validated, to be desired, to be accepted, our psychological drivers were formed before we were even born; we still carry the burdens of our mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers, no matter how desperately we want to put them down.

I extend compassion to myself and other women for the total mindfuck that afflicts all of us. That’s why I will never judge another woman individually for what she chooses to do with her face or body—or claim to even know what I think.

What I do want us to do is hold ourselves accountable. Because if we go on like this, it kinda feels like something is still holding us down.

I haven’t yet made up my mind about whether to get Botox. But I want to explore a different perspective on ageing. Where, instead of driving grown women to cling to their twenties (a decade I, for one, am already glad to see the back of), we welcome our crone eras.

The work: forget Brat summer, it’s Crone winter

We’ve made it this far without me pulling out any of the feminist big guns from my English Lit degree Women’s Writing module, but bear with me while I put my spectacles on.

In Jungian theory, archetypes are defined as primitive images in our collective, ancestral consciousness. These images resonate deeply in our psyches, as humans have been telling stories since the beginning of time.

The Crone is one such archetype from folklore, mythology and storytelling. She represents the wise old woman and appears in polarising forms, depending on the lens through which we view her. In patriarchal societies, she is often depicted as the hag; a disagreeable or downright wicked witch, cautioning against the loss of beauty, youth and sexual desirability. Typical.

But transcending that narrow, social construct, the Crone can embody wisdom, inner knowing, and sexual and personal power. In spiritual and pagan cultures, being in your Crone era is a rite of passage; celebrated for the discernment, acceptance and zero-BS attitude it brings you.

To quote Clarissa Pinkola Estés, a scholar on Crones (dream job), the Crone is:

"the one who sees far, who looks into the spaces between the worlds and can literally see what is coming, what has been, and what is now and what underlies and stands behind many things. [...] The Crone represents the ability to see, more than just with one’s eyes alone, but to see with the heart’s eyes, with the soul’s eyes, through the eyes of the creative force and the animating force of the psyche."

Embracing our inner knowing

I’m worried that the dominant brand of feminism that has emerged in recent years is more about leveraging, or downright manipulating, the system to our advantage; the “doing the best with what we’ve got” brand, rather than the “let’s burn this shit to the ground” brand.

Given the state of the world as it currently is, I have sympathy for this attitude.

But what I really want for society—for all genders—is a place that acknowledges and celebrates wisdom and maturity. Not one that perpetuates the creepy equation of youth and sex appeal that has led us down so many disappointing and tragic paths.

I want to give myself permission to do the things that make me feel beautiful. But I also want to make sure I stay true to my values, my innate sense of self, and my inner knowing. So, as I continue to Google aestheticians in my area, I will ask myself this: what would your Crone do?

She’d probably think, fuck that.

Hey!

Potentially because of my strong meme game, I know there are a few new faces around here. First of all, thank you so much for subscribing. I’m guilty of consuming fantastic content and never doing anything to acknowledge the person who wrote it, so it really means a lot that you would push the button.

Since I wrote a lot of my first posts when only my immediate family and a handful of loyal friends were subscribed, might I suggest a few faves from the archive? Like…

Who am I?

In case you haven’t noticed, I like to get existential. But in more practical terms, I am a freelance copywriter and qualified coach, currently based in London but soon to be moving to Bristol.

Substack is primarily my space to write freely, work out what I think and hear what other people think about the messy work of life. Sometimes this is through a coaching psychology lens, but more often than not it’s simply through a personal and human lens.

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