Age Concern

Author's Note: I wrote this all in present tense to start with, and I can't decide which works better. Do you think this would be better if it were all in present tense?

Age Concern

By Louise Broadbent

         I stood behind the till, watching a woman strut about the shop. Her painted lips pursed, stretching her foundation-coated skin, as she read labels on various beauty products. Her hair seemed to be immune to its environment: it would never ruffle in the wind, and would never be tangled, not even on the morning after. It was blonde, luscious and straight. Most of her face was hidden behind celebrity-style sunglasses. Those large, round bug-eye shades. She glanced at me. I imagined her raise a shaped eyebrow at my mousy fluff-ponytail and lack of make-up. I raised a never-been-tweazed eyebrow back at her. She returned her attention to the label of whatever product she was considering. Then she placed it in her basket, looked around for other available tills, sighed and clicked towards me in posture-perfecting heels.

         She put the basket down before me and looked away. I sneaked a scowl at her profile, then began bleeping through her pile of products. Lifting Serum, Age Renew Foundation, Age Defying Concealer, Anti-Wrinkle Nourishing Cream, Blonde Supreme Excellence Crème. They were all anti-age products. My eyes scanned the remaining items. No Dove Pro-Age, though, they must represent everything that she's against. Keeping my head down, and the pretence of concentrating on scanning through anti-age product after anti-age product, I looked up at her again. She was watching a teenage girl prance about in a too-mini-skirt and strappy top, no bra-straps. This woman boycotts Dove for trying to encourage woman that age can be beautiful, and shoots evils at a teenager because she envies her age. I felt the need to say something.

         ‘Good day so far?' I asked, straining to keep my tone light. The woman stared at me, or at least, I thought she did, it was hard to tell beneath those sunglasses. I smiled a smile that she'd be proud of: all look, no substance. The woman turned her attention back to the girl. I'm obviously not pretty enough to look at.

         ‘Pretty girl,' I said.

         The woman's head snapped back to look at me. ‘Her eyes are too big. And her mouth is weird. And she's wearing too much make-up.'

         While her last statement was true, I couldn't help thinking, ‘Look whose talking.'

         ‘Excuse me?' The woman's eyes must have been shooting fire at me from behind the shades. Shit, I said that out loud. What should I do? Apologise to this bitch?

         ‘You're both wearing too much make-up, because you're both pretty enough not to need to wear it.' I smiled at her again.

         Half of the woman's mouth also smiled, but it was a cruel, self-satisfied smile. She leaned closer to me, so that I could smell her perfume. ‘Not everyone is, dear.' Her words were meant to wax my soul, leaving it raw and sore. Bring it, bimbo, I may look harmless, but my tongue can bite, too.

         ‘There are more important things in life than looking good or,' I looked up at her, ‘young.'

         ‘What?' The woman's word sliced the air.

         I shrugged. ‘You're fighting a battle you can't win.'

         ‘And what is that supposed to mean?'

         I shrugged again. ‘Everyone ages, even you.' We held a stare-off with each other for a few minutes.

         ‘I know that,' she said, breaking eye-contact. Yeah right loser. I raised my eyebrows at her and waved an arm over her bounty of anti-age products. ‘Do you want my custom or not?' I don't give a shit. ‘Or perhaps I should speak to your manager.' She crocodile-smiled at me. I bit the gum below my bottom lip, then bleeped the final product passed the scanner, Dr LeWinn's Line Smoothing Complex, Double Intensity.

         ‘That's £209.99, please.' I waited for her to flinch, to question the total price, but she just took her purse out of her handbag, her expression blank. She's probably too botoxed-up to react facially. The woman handed me her credit card. ‘Thank you,' I said. She tweaked her mouth in response to my fake smile. Does her husband know how much money she wastes on beauty products? Perhaps she's not - oh no, she is, there's a wedding ring.

         ‘Sandra!' a woman shouted across the shop, her face creasing into a grin, crows-feet sprouting around her eyes, despite the layer of foundation. As she tottered towards us, I noticed some grey hairs showing through the hair dye at the root. Sandra grabbed her shopping bags and held them behind her back in one arm as she turned to face her friend.

         ‘Dora! How delightful.' The women air-kissed each other's cheeks.

         ‘My roots are showing through something awful, so I had to run down here to buy more dye,' Dora said. Another age-fighter. Sandra pulled what I thought was meant to be a sympathetic face. 'You're so lucky not to need any of this anti-age nonsense,' Dora said. ‘Even though I buy every product under the sun, you still look younger than me.' Dora raised her arms, in defeat or worship, I couldn't be sure. I was too busy trying to stifle my laughter. Sandra glared at me and lead her friend away. ‘So what have you got there?' Dora asked, loudly enough for me to hear, trying to peer into Sandra's shopping bags. Sandra waved her arm about, no doubt lying about her recent purchase. ‘Keith is so lucky to have you to look after him. You'd think, the man being a doctor, he'd know how to look after himself. Looks are so important if you want to succeed.' What does Sandra succeed at? Pretending and lying about her looks? She does look younger than her friend, so I guess that's success. It wouldn't last, though, just like looks and the body. Everything breaks down, even lies and secrets. My eyes followed Dora and Sandra as they crossed the threshold into the sunlight outside. I'll never try to keep aging a secret. I had enough important secrets of my own to keep.