I can't remember the exact month or year when the lines began invading the outer corners of my eyes, creeping in like a quiet mouse and eventually making a permanent home for themselves there. But I can, on the other hand, clearly recall the first time someone — a complete stranger, actually — made their presence known to me.
"Crow's feet," the woman behind the makeup counter at Macy's called them, not doing much to disguise her pity at the already-prominent divots that marked my 13-year-old face. As I fumbled over foundation and lipstick, she suggested I try an eye cream, handing over one inscribed with the words "wrinkle-reducing" and "anti-aging," which, at the time, were terms I'd only seen on TV commercials and in my mother's medicine cabinet. Until that moment, I hadn't given my premature lines a second thought, but when I looked into the lady's quietly judging eyes — eyes surrounded by smooth, taut skin — I became painfully aware that these "crow's feet" she described were not a positive or sought-after feature, but rather something I should feel ashamed of, something I should have tried harder to prevent. Something I should hide.
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After that experience, which could very well be one of the reasons I now tend to avoid malls at all costs, I became borderline obsessed with crow's feet; not only my own but the lack thereof on my peers. Suddenly I felt insecure, abnormal, and embarrassed, especially when I smiled and they were impossible not to notice. I swore a new fine line popped up every week, creating a crow's feet cobweb if you will, a facet I silently despised and did my best to shield from others who might look at them the same way that woman at Macy's did.
I poured over different eye creams and "line-plumping" products in the aisles of my local drugstore, wondering if anyone else my age had ever done the same thing. (Probably not, I figured.) I tried concealers, too, but as anyone with fine lines knows, crow's feet aren't the easiest of "flaws" to cover up, as they often end up looking cake-y and more pronounced under the unforgiving weight of base makeup. Most formulas immediately crease on me, giving way to even more frustration and shame.
When I asked my dermatologist, who treats me for a skin condition called Netherton Syndrome — a rare disease characterized by severely dry skin — how I'd amassed them at such a young age, he explained that the intense dryness and lack of moisture in my skin causes tension and tightness, subsequently resulting in surface lines such as crow's feet. And when I begged for a fix, he gently told me that there was little they could do, save for trying Botox when I reached an appropriate age. Cue me nearly choking.
Not down with the idea of injecting my face with fillers (a personal choice), I instead resorted to truly ridiculous tactics, like actually resisting laughter. I know, looking back, that was probably my lowest point: trying to stop myself from expressing sheer human emotion, simply out of vanity. But, with each woman and girl in the media appearing more line-less than the next (a factor I now realize was Photoshop's doing), it felt like just another potential "solution" I should try.
Somewhere along the line of self-loathing, though, something sort of miraculous happened: I started to like my lines. And it wasn't because anyone assured me they were "totally OK!" or "make you even more beautiful!" but because I realized that without them, I wouldn't look like myself. You see, despite the aforementioned circus of insecurities I grappled with growing up — and still deal with to this day — I didn't hate the way I looked. I began to notice that, when I smiled, my eyes would light up in the sparkly way we often associate with Santa Clause, which I now know I can credit to my crow's feet thanks to this insightful article in the most recent "All About Eyes" issue of Allure.
The article sheds light on some wildly interesting (IMO) facts about crow's feet, like how they are integral to helping you express empathy and genuineness, and to connect with children. So, as it turns out, my lines actually help me rather than hurt me, though no one was talking this way when I was a teen. Back then, crow's feet were still widely regarded as unattractive signifiers of getting older, which I realize now is so absurd, as aging is anything but ugly. It's one of the most beautiful things we can count on in this crazy rollercoaster called life.
Just look at some of the most stunning people in the world (looking at you, Meryl Streep and Salma Hayek) and I promise you'll be able to point out their own set of crow's feet, which for the record, I now lovingly refer to as laugh lines. This is because they're directly related to joy, deepened by each belly-shaking snicker and cackle we share with the ones we love. Can you imagine a world with no laughter? Because I certainly can't (take it from someone who tried).
If laughter means more lines, I'm more than OK with that. In fact, I'm looking forward to watching them change and expand like growing branches as I get older. Hopefully, I'll look wise, kind-hearted, and like I lived a happy life full of laughing fits and 100-watt smiles. It might sound cheesy, but it's taken me a long time to get here, so I'm proud to talk about this step towards self-love. And my hope is that it makes every one of you — especially those who might loathe their lines like I did — see the beauty, and the magic in them. For now, I'm ditching the eye cream more often than not, laughing whenever I can, and learning to love the lines that I wish I realized were lovely all along.
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Before you go, find out what we all need to nix the term "anti-aging:"
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