Writing stories at an early age, words were my playmates, spending time in their company, getting to know them, to understand them, was pure pleasure. Several decades later I spoke of my childish delight in Once upon a time . . . my first On the Shelf podcast. The power of the English language drew me in then, as it does now. Each time hoping the next piece of prose will be better than the last. Occasionally it is. And when it does work, words can bring tears to eyes, laughter to lips, can sooth and comfort, can transport (with 0% carbon) to near or far-flung places, take us back to the dawn of time or forward to a sci-fi future. Words are world-building! And despite living in this overheated, confrontational planet now, I still believe the pen IS mightier than the sword – while excluding the venomous tit-for-tat spats on social media. But a ‘pen’ in the hands of a reputable journalist or writer of fact or fiction is capable of piercing even the ‘hearts’ of heartless despots: PEN International’s 2025 figures ranking Iran, Russia and Israel the top three countries imprisoning writers.
I am, however, a bit of a grouch when it comes to certain changes in word usage, and the speed with which these changes catch on. I had even considered emailing Micheal Rosen, of Radio 4’s Word of Mouth, with my pet hates – I illustrated a book of his way back when. But, had I done so, know he would have said: Language evolves, Maggie. As it should. And I would have agreed with him. And yet . . . as a fervent feminist, you will never hear me greet a group of women, even if half are transgender, with, Hi guys! And what has happened to the act of sitting down? I will accept sat from a Northerner with a convincing accent, but elsewhere, forget it. Then there’s silver bullet! One of the worst. How can a bullet be the cure-all /the answer to anything!
Which brings me back to Skin Deep, the new aestheticism, and the double use and abuse of both language and body. Aesthete: a person who affects an extravagant love of art. Aesthetic: relating to, possessing, or pretending to possess a sense of beauty. Of late, I noticed that cosmetic surgeons are rebranding themselves using terms such as Aesthetic Artistry. Gives them a bit of a lift, I guess. Sounds less sharp, less cutting. And, who knows, Oscar Wilde, a prominent aesthete, had he lived now, might have got himself a neck or eyebrow lift. Maybe the full-face job!
A feminist, back when it was a badge to wear with pride, the fact that I wore make up was frowned upon by my sisters in the struggle – though many later got around to it. Born with microphthalmia, a rare eye condition leaving me congenitally blind in one eye, from my early teens, I attempted to ‘balance’ my face by using eye make-up. Thereby giving me confidence to face the world of the ‘matching-eyed’ people I envied. Still do. Which is why, now, when I see perfectly good-looking, two-eyed women in the street, on TV or cinema screen (some previously known for their feminism) have succumbed to some form of aesthetic intervention, my esteem plummets.
According to a piece in The Observer newspaper, there is a resurgence in early intervention surgeries in the 25-40 age group. And yet, as I see it, with my one not so little but only seeing eye, these aesthetically-altered women have been made less beautiful. I mean, who would willingly pay for a knife to slice through a perfectly fine face, in order to end up looking like a clone of other women, with the same centrally-parted flowing locks, the stick-on black-lashes, the pouty-lipped mouth (often the ubiquitous tattoo; another sado-masochistic form of self-abuse), looking vacuous, superficial.
But I imagine a beautician, even a historian, would reiterate a version of what Michael R might have said to me: Fashions in beauty change, they evolve. Who, today, would see a plucked back Renaissance hairline and think it beautiful? And yet increasing numbers of women pay large amounts of money, in the UK or travelling to Turkey or elsewhere, for a half or full face, a brow, breast or bum lift, emptying their savings account and cheapening themselves.
We are more than skin deep. Our life, who we are, have been, is there, written on that window on the world that is our face. Look after it by healthy eating and drinking, by exercise. Protect it with sun-screen and moisturiser. Take care of what’s under the skin. An ageing face should not be something shameful to mask, hiding the real person beneath the skin. In the same Observer piece, an aesthetic artist said: Lower Face Lifts help remove signs of weariness and falsely expressed emotion[whatever that may be], sadness, anger and fatigue, which can look permanent on ageing skin.
I tackle this subject in The Milk Float and then The Fox, a recent story, in which my narrator Owen watches the woman he fell in love with disappear. A short extract follows the cartoon: one from a long-running, single-frame, late 1980s weekly series in OK magazine.
We’re coming up to her 59th birthday. Our once glorious relationship, though not what it was, is jogging along in a tolerable way, with a certain amount of mutual indifference. I presume it was at one of her ‘Salon parties’ that the mysterious Tina had had another go at Chrissie’s lips. And something had been done to her skin, that made it look smoother, shinier, yet horribly, frighteningly masklike. I no longer ask what’s going on. I find it too disgusting. Too repulsive. As far as I’m concerned, these mad-cow women are no better, no worse, than a load of junkies getting together for group heroin fixes. Chrissie embarked on this road to nowhere without a word to me: the man who had seen her and loved her as that woman, wanted to grow old with that woman, not this imposter she was allowing to take her over.
Despite that, trying to keep some semblance of a relationship going, one Saturday morning over breakfast, after griping about the Coalition’s budget statement, I feel cheerful enough to suggest to the woman who is slowly destroying the wife I had promised to love ‘to the end of our days’, that it was time she and I had a holiday. When? she asks, somewhat unenthusiastically. Early autumn? I suggest. First half of September? Oh, she says. That’s not great timing. Turns out the threesome, she, Tina and Gem, have planned a ‘girl’s trip’ to Turkey. Indeed, have already booked a two-week break in Antalya.
You’ve not mentioned any of this to me, I say.
We’ve been mulling it over, she says, adding, Well it’ll be sixteen days, actually.
Will it! I say. Alright for some. Planning ahead, it seems.
She mumbles something about hotels getting booked up quickly in that area.
It turned me off completely. Off her. Off any idea of a holiday together. Who the hell was I living with? An imposter! Perhaps the real Chrissie, my Chrissie, had been kidnapped by aliens. By body snatchers. If she wasn’t going to try, why should I. My once lovely wife had gone over to the dark side and been swallowed up.
Pen International: www.pen-international.org
English Pen: www.englishpen.org