Several years ago I worked on an e-learning video for Selene River Press called Shape Your Face by a former bodybuilder named Tom Hagerty. The goal is pretty straightforward: Tom leads you through a set of six rigorous facial exercises that target the muscles of the upper and lower face and front of the neck. It’s basically a natural, noninvasive program for feeling good about the way you look. (And I can affirm that Tom’s face was still looking very good in his eighties, as you will see in the video. You can also check out Tom’s blog post about how he created Shape Your Face right here.)
I was intrigued at the time. But, I wondered, did I have enough patience to learn how to do the exercises properly, and then actually do the exercises properly for more than a couple of days? I was doubtful. Consistency is not a quality people often ascribe to me.
Now that some time has passed, I occasionally think about Shape Your Face when I look in the mirror. Am I aging? Duh. Are my facial muscles starting to lose their tone? Yes. Why won’t gravity leave me alone? Because it’s a bitch. My face has been on my mind even more as of late.
because of an episode that happened last Christmas. I went to my sister’s house in California. She lives in a town called Los Osos. It’s unincorporated, which basically means that no two houses look alike, and if you’ve got a few cars, trucks, hogs, or dune buggies on your front lawn that “need work,” nobody’s going to complain. It looks a bit ramshackle, a bit rundown. But it’s on the central coast. The Pacific Ocean is right there.
One great thing to do if you’re near the Pacific Ocean, especially after a hard day of Christmas shopping at Target, is go to a restaurant with a patio and drink chardonnay with your mom and your sister. On the day of the episode, that’s what we did. We needed to gossip about the woman at Target. She was a stylish woman of indeterminate age, she had had been checking out in front of us. A big ole rock, a cashmere wrap, slim black jeans, ballet flats, and an absolutely perfect Michele-Pfeiffer-in Scarface bob haircut.
At this point I’ll loop back around to Shape Your Face. This woman had not shaped her face. She had botched her face. Not cat-lady botched, but adjacent. I’d say one condo over. Her face was botched enough to make one uncomfortable. Sad, even.
(Yes, it is bitchy and uncool to talk about a total stranger’s face, especially since some doctor had done it to her. So stranger lady from Target, I’m sorry for talking shit. But at least you’ll always have the most perfect bob cut outside of Scarface that I’ve ever seen.)
My sister shared her theory: the woman’s husband was a plastic surgeon who had taken out a huge life insurance policy on his wife. Soon enough, he would finish her off. I moved my sister’s wine glass away, and we eventually changed the topic. But we were all thinking about our faces.
The sun was setting. I was on my second chard. “If I ever get plastic surgery,” I finally said, “I’d do something about these.” I vaguely gestured at my mouth.
“Your marionette lines?” my mom said helpfully—and if I’m being honest, far too quickly. Clearly my marionette lines had been weighing on her mind.
“Mom!” I said, shocked she could see them. I mean, of course she could see them. They’re on my face. But that’s the point, isn’t it? I didn’t want to know that they were that obvious.
“Oh, you’re beautiful,” she said with practiced eased. And so it went. Three women of indeterminate age, slowly sipping their chardonnay, drinking an afternoon away while detailing all the things we would change about our faces. But only if it looked natural, of course.
Naturally, natural results would require a program such as Shape Your Face. Just six little exercises, plus some dedication and persistence. I’d like to think I can pull it off.
Main image from iStock/shurkin_son.
