Those Age Spots Aren’t Cute Little Moles. But Why Should We Feel Ashamed of Them?
Three months before my 60th year, I began to develop spots. Dark areas appeared on the back of my hands and the side of my face. Some are circular; others oval, and a few are kidney shaped. When I look at them, I think of Dalmatians. But I do not find my spots cute.They seemed to appear overnight, although I’m sure they began in my teens. My girlfriends and I baked our bodies in the sun until we were as dark as mahogany. Coconut oil, turtle oil – I’m surprised we didn’t slather on Crisco in our attempts to have the deepest tan. We measured our success by the way our white bathing suits set off the color of our skin. How could we possibly have known all that sun was causing extreme damage to the lower levels of our epidermis? In fact, how many of us even knew the existence of that word?
Tab Hunter was dark dark. Dean Martin sported a tan. Raquel Welch. Name nearly any movie star of the 60s and they were tan. Southern California was ‘in’ and the look was outdoors and healthy. Endless Summer was about to be released, and The Beach Boys were on top of the charts with Little Surfer Girl.
We wore short shorts. We rode in convertibles with the tops down. We never wore hats. We ate, slept, drank and lived on the beach.
The big M word – melanoma or skin cancer – hadn’t yet entered mainstream consciousness.
But back to my spots. The ones on the side of my face aren’t too bad. About the size of a small blouse button, they are just enough darker than my own skin. I have sufficient peach fuzz to soften their appearance. But the newest one is smack on top of my forehead. Not quite in the middle, but a bit to the left.
I search for ways to cherish the spots, but more often, they just irritate me. I’ve never had picture perfect skin, nor could I ever have made it as a “Dove” girl, but these spots have marked a new low between acne and the appearance of deeper wrinkles.
