It is hard to pinpoint when it starts. Young children are exempt from concern for their self image. This makes it easier for mothers who need to change their soggy toddler's clothes on the sidelines of an older brother's soccer game. Then sometime in childhood the awareness of what other people think seeps in like the water in our basement. We are still confounded about the entry point, and exactly what we can do to deter it.

 

But the consciousness pushes out what was a fresh strand of freedom. I love to witness the unkempt beauty of little ones dancing in the grocery aisles, or throwing their chubby arms into a sky full of birds. 

 

As we age we comply with the need to suck in our bellies and pay for expensive haircuts. The fashion and cosmetic industries lean heavily into this Achilles' heel of image, which I suppose makes everyone more attractive. But I wonder about the cost. Not the one we can quantify with a budget, but the one whose assumption is that we are not worthwhile if we fail to buy in. 

 

Recently I was at the after party of a memorial service. People were exchanging memories of a woman who had recently graduated to angelhood, and there was a marked absence of attention to how she looked. Her body had indeed served her into her nineties, not with the energy lavished on those early decades, but enough to fold her wrinkled hands in prayer. 

 

The beginning of life and the finale are like the ends of a bell curve, uninflated by prestige. As I find myself closer to the edge than the middle, I hope I will again toss my flabby arms to the stars.