25/04/2026
WRINKLE POTION? MY ARSE.
Every time I see an advert for some anti wrinkle “miracle” cream, it’s always fronted by a girl who looks about twelve.
Not a line on her face…
and she’s standing there telling me it’ll take ten years off mine.
If it takes ten years off her,
she’ll be back in a pram.
I’ve tried a few of those fancy jars over the years…
the only thing that got any lighter was my purse.
My face?
Still the same.
So I thought… sod this.. I’d rather spend the money on candles and good coffee.
So that’s it.
I’m keeping every line.
Every crinkle.
Every little crease that tells the story of the laughs, the tears,
the nights I stayed up making spells and stirring dreams.
These aren’t “signs of ageing”.. they’re proof that I’ve bloody lived.
That I’ve laughed so hard I cried, that I’ve cried until I laughed again, that I’ve danced barefoot under the moon, argued with the wind, and loved enough to get my heart broken.
I’ll keep my witchy wrinkles.
They suit me.
They’re mine.
I reckon I’ve earned every single one.
Here’s to me embracing the map of my years, etched right there on my face. They can shove their miracle cream where the moon doesn’t shine.
Jen x💕
