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My birthday yesterday (7th) raised an interesting topic last night over dinner at a friends place about the ravages of time on beauty. I said, honestly, that given a choice I would much rather be my 35 years old rather than being able to go back to 21 with an unlined face. That choice was made all things being as they stand. I can’t, if it were possible to go back to 21, take the knowledge I have now.

Brad Pitt was brought up as an example. We all remember his youthful stunning six-packed turn in Thelma & Louise looking all babyfaced and chiselled bodied. A friend said he’s looking a bit rough now. I said it’s because he’s chasing a brood of 6 young children around and quite frankly looking damned sex still all these years after Thelma or Louise (who can remember and who cares which is which?) had their way with him. For me, while I can spend hours admiring the beauty of youth, as I get older the lines on a man’s face tell the story of a life hopefully full of ups, downs, stories and experiences. Fingers crossed, when people see the lines on my face they aren’t tracing the equivalent of Route 66 across my forehead.