Erasing My Mother's Face

My entire life, I’ve heard that I look like my mother. With our oversized almond eyes, high cheekbones, and naturally dewy skin, the comparison isn’t a stretch, but when you’re 12 and your mom is 48, the comment doesn’t exactly land as a compliment. “But she’s so old,” I cried in my prepubescent whine, blissfully unaware that the late 40s are in no way elderly. I insisted that the two of us looked nothing alike, despite everyone from my father (her ex-husband), my teachers, and many of my childhood friends declaring so throughout my awkward teenage years.

I scoffed at their remarks all through college as well, unable to see past her mane of silvery hair to acknowledge the undeniable resemblance between us. Slowly though, as the passage of time began to mark my own face, I realized what a gift it is to see your mother looking back at you in the mirror.

I began to see that my mom, who is now 72 years old, was a testament to the power of good skincare, the years doing little to dampen her glow or etch harsh wrinkles into her forehead. Cleansing, moisturizing, and sunscreen remain the extent of her minimalist (albeit very consistent) beauty routine. “It didn’t fit my interests,” she tells me when I ask about her streamlined approach to beauty. “You don’t wear makeup in a barn.” (For context, she is the quintessential horse girl, and has been for the past 50-plus years).

Ironically, by the time your prefrontal cortex is fully developed at age 25, your collagen levels simultaneously begin to drop. So just as I began to appreciate the similarities between my mom and I, the aging process was really and truly underway, and I’ll admit, it scared the hell out of me. Conveniently enough, this is also when I secured my first magazine job in New York City, connecting me to a previously undiscovered world of beauty treatments, free skincare products, and industry experts who knew me by name. I was plugged in and armed with everything I needed to keep myself looking youthful for as long as possible, a space I’ve continued to occupy as a beauty editor for over 10 years. The fear that by tinkering with my face I may inadvertently erase a small piece of my mother’s legacy had yet to cross my mind.

It was only inevitable that I leveled up my skincare routine in ways my mom never did—or even could given the average price of a laser treatment these days. Given the nature of my job, my exposure to every facet of the beauty industry is vast. I greet it head-on every morning and strategize how to make it accessible for my fellow beauty fans every week. My product regimen has swelled far beyond the essentials she taught me to use by example, now encompassing all manner of exfoliating, brightening, smoothing, and lifting formulas. I’ve tested and swatched, dabbled and tweaked, determined to find the perfect cocktail to render my (already pretty good) complexion as radiant as possible. Pretty much from the moment I entered the beauty business, I was, and still very much am, single-minded in my pursuit of the best quality (and most youthful-looking) skin science could deliver.

By 28, I was sitting in a chair at a fancy dermatologist’s office, gladly accepting a vial of Botox in my forehead, though a fine line had yet to appear on my face. My mother chuckled when I told her, already accustomed to the way I interacted with beauty products and procedures, namely like a kid in a very posh candy store. When it was time for my next appointment, I didn’t think twice about adding a little filler to my cheeks and lips too. I was eager for the professionals to mold my face into the best version of itself, even if that meant inching further away from the bone structure and skin laxity levels determined by my mother’s and my genetics. If I’m destined to end up with jowls and hollow cheeks, I, and my dermatologist, will work overtime to lift and plump my skin in response.

When I decided to finally go under the knife for a rhinoplasty last year, I gave my mom a cheerful heads up during the holidays, and she assured me that it was my decision to make, and later that the results looked lovely. My calendar also stays booked up every four to six months for injectables, proof of my steadfast commitment to slowing the passage of time—or at least any noticeable evidence of it on my face. Unlike my mother, my approach is preventative, thoughtful, and proactive, if similarly diligent. If her goal was keeping her skin healthy and protected from the sun, mine is to look like myself—and by default, like her—but optimized.

Still, when I see photos of myself and notice that my eyes don’t crinkle at the edges the way my mother’s do, I wonder: Am I losing the evidence of our shared DNA? Will I look in the mirror when I’m finally 48—the age that my 12-year-old self was so resentful to hear of our resemblance—and be sad that I don’t see as much of her in the face I’ve worked so hard to enhance and keep youthful?

Sometimes I look at photos of her at my age and I blink, one-two-three, taking in her wild prematurely gray hair and smattering of sunspots from a life spent outdoors with horses and rambunctious dogs, and I pause, momentarily worried that my dyed hair, rebuilt nose, and artificially plumped and smoothed skin mean I’m somehow erasing a part of her that only I share. I turned to her recently and asked if she felt the same, or if she was bothered that my approach to beauty is so much more robust than hers ever was, and she smiled: “I want you to do what makes you feel good,” she assured me.

So maybe I will look different than my mother when I’m her age, and the resemblance between us will fluctuate with every birthday I celebrate, but I carry so much more than her dewy skin and high cheekbones. I may be the beauty expert, but through her quiet confidence, she’s taught me the most important lesson of all, “do what makes you feel good.”