This lack of cosmetic concern for anything more than hygiene meant my medicine chest held no potions or lotions or magic wrinkle creams. Instead, this box held a bottle of aspirin, dental floss, a lipstick, eye liner and hair clippers. These few items seemed to suit my basic needs for a cosmetically carefree life.

In my early twenties a visiting friend called out to me from my bathroom, "Where's your face cleanser?" Her inquiry baffled me as I was sure there was a brand new bar of soap over the sink.

"There's soap right there. Maybe I put it in the shower," I yelled to her.

Now the voice that came from behind the door rang out in reprimand. "You use soap on your face? Are you crazy? Do you know what that stuff does to your skin?" As she emerged she continued her rebuke. "Your face is going to look like a raisin by the time you're 35. Tell me you'll use plain water until you get a moisturizing cleanser." She recommended a variety of products which wouldn't prevent aging but might cause Mother Nature to hesitate a bit in her revisions.

Silently I snubbed her scolding and suggestions. Surely I, who have barely held a razor in my hands, could not concern myself with such crazy conceit. Early in life I had decided that I would greet aging with an air of dignity and agreeable acceptance. Part of my romantic self even looked forward to the character lines and silver locks that could be achieved only by nature and the passing of time.

After my friend's departure, I continued on my course of minimal cosmetic care. Soap remained my only cleanser. Any lotions were of the extra-strength variety in a bulk-sized bottle. Low-budget and low-maintenance prevailed as my only skin-care goals.

This altercation occurred nearly ten years ago. As I entered my thirties I still felt the youthful exuberance and well-being that comes from, well, youth itself. I stuck to my sentiments on skin care sundries, yet I found myself lingering, just a little longer, in that very aisle of the grocery store.

This year, now decidedly in my thirties, I started to notice the decline of the aging. My econo bottles of lotion seemed to be diminishing at a much more rapid pace. Dry skin became a year-round malady. My hands, always strong and smooth, now looked like the hands of a sun-baked farmer. Ten years ago, when my older sister told me of the loss of elasticity in her skin, I laughed. Now at that very same point in my life that she was then, I concurred with her observation. And there, on the very top of my head, I spied the first of what I could only assume would be an army of silver hairs. All of this I took in stride. It was, after all, what I had been anticipating all these years. No reason to fret.

The denouement came via a passing glance in the mirror — a passing glance which brought me to a crashing halt. A crease right down the middle of my brow, perhaps caused by much consternation, caused me much consternation. With my fingertip I attempted to smooth it away. The rest of the day I could not keep my hands from feeling for this furrow which had established permanent residency on my forehead. Upon closer inspection I noticed SEVERAL more of these permanent autographs of age — all over my face. Like a mime, I made myriad expressions at the mirror in search of the occasion of these newfound creases. I was pleased that most of the wrinkles seemed a result of smiling and other such expressions of elation. Still, I was surprised at my overall aversion. I poked and prodded in self-examination, stopping only as I caught myself singing, ever so softly, "You're so vain..."

Several weeks ago I found myself again in the lotion lane of the grocery store. For a good half hour I scanned, skimmed, and scrutinized the labels of the assorted salves available. Although I'm now old enough to know better, I fell for the one labeled "age-defying cleansing cream." Of course I can't defy age. Nor can I deny age. But I don't see any harm in trying to save a little face.