I hate to admit it, but I've reached the age where you begin to wonder whether the Fountain of Youth really exists, and whether there really is a Pillar of Fire hidden in the dormant volcano somewhere in middle of Africa where H. Rider Haggard's Queen Ayesha gained immortality.
It's pathetic really.
I used to pooh-pooh the women who run off during lunch breaks to fill up on Botox, or discuss which doctor offers a more natural nose job while they sip their afternoon tea. "I would never go for any of that," I said to myself. I'm going to age gracefully, wrinkles and all, though I'll make an exception for colouring my hair. After all, I quite like the idea of ash berry streaks this year, or blueberry tints for next season.
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