Between the Lines

The wisdom of her face.

Her hands were ropey, aged, simultaneously soft and worn in only the way hands that have tended the earthly luxuries of life can - feeding chickens, weeding the garden, baking thousands of biscuits for a sea of grandchildren that left their hearts fuller than their mouths.

Those hands glided over the keys, gently stroking, playing a song from before my time. The music echoed through the hall, the coldness of the air present despite the oil heater burning, the kind of cold only the southern parts of Australia know in winter.

My grandmother played that piano for us whenever we asked, never resisting a moment to create memories, share her musical joy, fill the home with sound that let us know she was there.

The image of her hands floated in my mind as I contemplated this idea of beauty. All I saw was wisdom, magic, life.

I look at my own hands, striking keys as my heart fills my mind with the words to write next. I can see the veins, small scars from tumbles along the way, an oversized knuckle on my right middle finger from an accident with friends when I was 10, the risen lump on that same finger from the way I held my pencil all those years in school.

These are my hands, my memories, imperfections that make them mine.

I’m not talking about the prints they leave, I was born with those. They weren’t borne out of the life I’ve lived. They don’t hold emotion or nostalgically take me back to the past when I curiously gaze at them for a moment, the imperfections, on the other hand, do — memories calling forth from a sea of my own experiences.

My fingerprints are fixed; the skin of my hands mutable.

My grandmother left this earth a few years ago at the age of ninety-three, her hands told every one of those years. Her face did too.

The softness of her eyes, the crow’s feet punctuated her expression when she laughed so hard she got the silent jiggles at the table. The defined lines around her lips from years of smoking, something she loved but gave up cold turkey at some point in my youth.

There’s this photo of her standing in the lounge, dressing gown on, cigarette in hand, going about her business, the empty 1-litre cardboard milk container popped fully open acting as an ashtray. I love that photo of her.

She’d probably kill me for writing that — or pretend to chastise me as she fondly remembered those years. I can hear her in my head as I type.

Her siblings all carried a strong resemblance, for the brothers it was in their ears, the sisters, their noses. You could easily identify who was a Hickey, her maiden name, from those definable features.

Her face told me about her life. It showed me what she’d lived through and navigated, the adventures her life had taken. Her face moved in only the way her face could, in a way I had come to identify as a safe space, of home.

As I’ve begun to age, I find myself peering into the mirror, assessing the face staring back at me. Nudge closer in, see new lines forming, my hands automatically drawing toward my hairline to gently pull my face back, get an image of what it looked like ten years ago.

‘This is a normal face, Courtney. This is what forty looks like’, I silently tell myself.

Truth is, I’m standing still as the world of faces around me change, the Benjamin Button effect of injectables in full swing. And I have to be consciously aware not to buy into it. To remember my grandmother, her face, her life.

A few months ago I met with a friend in Noosa for the day. She was up from Melbourne, I was already on the Sunshine Coast, everything aligned. We sat in this cafe, eating Nasi and scrambled eggs, sipping deliciously roasted coffee, barely coming up for air.

Three hours disappeared in a vacuum of alive conversation. Kids, business, marriage, technology, personal evolution.

At some point we made it onto the topic of beauty, ageing, arms moving as much as our mouths.

Trends, eras, young women growing up during the rage of 90s heroin chic supermodels and the early 00s where anorexia, right before diagnosis or rehab, was the look.

I looked around and saw many faces — foreheads that didn’t move, lips plumped beyond natural form. Faces that weren’t God-given.

The door opened and over the bustle of conversations, a woman and her husband appeared. She was tall, slender. Mid to late seventies if I had to guess. Draped in a bubblegum pink linen co-ord pant set, a timeless cami silhouette on the top. Her feet wrapped in buttery camel leather slides, a chunky shell necklace her only adornment.

As I glanced at her face, her years of life were evident. Her experience and wisdom not erased but welcomed. Her lips a softer shade of pink, her hair a dreamy salt and pepper grey, hints of a subtle curl. Perhaps hair like mine when it was long, I pondered.

There was nothing trying about her. Chic the only word on my mind — effortless Parisian beauty in form.

She briefly took a seat at the long distressed timber communal table that ran down the centre of the room, browsing the menu before settling on something. As her husband made his way to order, she stood and moved in my direction, taking a seat at the small empty table next to us.

I was seated with my back against the wall, on the long bench seat, she sat in the opposing single chair, leaving her husband the spot beside me.

The fifteen minutes of conversation about beauty that preceded her arrival was now a physical manifestation occupying the chair next to me.

I’ve curated my social feed to show me older women ageing gracefully — wild long grey hair, a face adorned with crevices and lines that show the love, laughter and heartbreak they’ve experienced.

I want to see that, be reminded of that.

Today my feed was not necessary — real life delivered.

As the salmon, potato and chive salad arrived at their table, her husband enquired where the second bowl was, the waitress realising the order had been taken wrong. A new one would be out soon.

Her husband took the bowl, currently placed in front of him, and slid it across for his wife to eat. A smile crept onto my face. Chivalry isn’t dead, I thought.

I watched her in my periphery, eating. No concern for the high fats or carbs she was consuming — she was joyous in the simplicity of this meal, of this moment.

As we were getting up to leave I hesitated, slid myself along the bench seat, out from under the table and before I stood I said to her, I’m so sorry to interrupt.

She paused eating and looked at me with a smile in her eyes, indicating zero concern for the interruption.

But I just have to say, your entire vibe is beautiful. We’ve been having this conversation, gesturing to my friend, about ageing gracefully, owning your beauty at all ages and seeing you walk in — you were exactly the epitome of what we were wishing for more of. You are radiant.

Her eyes welled with tears, mine mirroring her emotion, as the look of being seen settled across her face.

I saw a woman feeling honoured for her age in front of me, disarmed by the moment. Thank you was all she managed to get out, her energy told me everything her voice couldn’t.

I wished them both a wonderful day, brushing her arm with my hand as I stood, smiled and left.

I hope she felt celebrated in that moment — to see the sea of homogenised faces, the immovable brows and desperation to freeze time — and recognised that her beauty surpassed everything that existed around her. Because it was individual.

Her face looking nothing like anyone else’s. Just like my grandmother’s, her lines were hers and hers alone, from decades of making expressions only her face inherently makes.

Since that day in Noosa, I’ve thought endlessly about the words you read today. I’ve thought of that woman, my grandmother and the life that’s making itself known on my face.

I think of it as I bypass women on the street, I feel it break my heart a little when I see barely-teen girls with their false lashes, I observe irritation rise in me as I see the local bus roll past with a reminder my face needs work, not admiration.

I’ve wondered how to write this… how to share this feeling I have. And it continues to circle back to this single question:

What exactly are we trying to erase?

Our laughter?

Our expression?

Our individuality?

Our humanness?

The reality of what it is to actually be alive?

Through all the brainwashing the beauty industry has foisted upon us, we’ve forgotten this:

The beauty of life is in the living.

It is experiencing sorrow, heartbreak and overwhelming joy that makes us cry.

It’s getting scratches and scars from adventure-filled days as children, wonder the only calling card.

It’s in growing and birthing babies, our bodies changing forever in the miraculous process.

It’s being gifted time that only old age affords.

That’s the marvel. The beauty we grow into, not out of.

Honour it. Don’t eradicate it.

You’ve no idea how magnificent you are - with the lines, not without.

Court x