My mother sported face wrinkles, lots of them. I don’t recall her without them. I suppose most five-year-olds see wrinkles in the faces of anyone over thirty-five.
Mom was not a smoker, nor did she spend much time outdoors. Her face did not reflect the harsh deteriorating effect of tobacco, sun, and dry air. She cleansed and creamed but could not escape her genes.
I share those genes. Menopausal weight gain deposited extra weight on my face, without which I fear I would resemble a dried apple. I have documented a trial of expensive skin care which eased some of the genetic corrosion. But I chose to spend my money elsewhere, opting for the less expensive sister of Estee Lauder: Oil of Olay. Their packaging is even similar.
In the past year I splurged on topical collagen. I doubt I look any better, but my skin does feel lovely to the few people I allow to touch it. Mostly myself.
Wearing little makeup during the Covid pandemic, I witnessed the natural evolution of my aging skin. I pushed the envelope and ordered powdered collagen with peptides via my favorite department store, Amazon.com. Per Google, the oral route shows better results in skin care. Also, it’s supposed to be good for joint pain. The post promised a powder that dissolves easily and is tasteless. I took a before picture of my crevices and began the routine: two scoops daily dissolved in water.
The post was correct: it dissolves easily, mostly, and is tasteless. But it stinks. Enduring years of colonoscopy prep, which, by the way, has improved considerably, conditioned me to hold my breath while gagging down unpleasant substances. After four days, I realized that this regimen would be unsustainable. Today I sprinkled the powder on my toast and peanut butter. It was palatable.
I will continue to use the powder, post a before and after photo, and you can decide if powder collagen Mother Nature is the way to go. I may explore facial putty.