Why Do Americans Hate Their Faces?
Even in the midst of chaos, this query struck me… go figure.
With fresh corners of southern California bursting into flames daily, and the new administration careening like mad bulls of fascism, I find myself struggling to think about or articulate on topics that seem frivolous or less urgent than all that. And yet … I want to. I don’t want to focus only on the Sturm und Drang of our current times, because, good lord, there’s too much of it, and there are less ponderous things that merit conversation too. For example:
Why do Americans hate their faces?
That somewhat tongue-in-cheek query (clearly not all Americans do), prods a prevailing trend that recently struck me.
I just finished streaming a Swedish drama that fell into the “Like It” not “Love It” category, but the quality of the show is not what piqued my interest; the actors involved did, and for one particular reason:
They looked like real people. Real, everyday people. Imagine that?
People with average looks, occasionally schlumpy bodies, visibly aging, unmade-up faces. Some were more attractive than others but none would be called “knock-outs,” and all were folks you’d find at your grocery store, the school pick-up line, singing out-of-tune in the church choir, or at your high school reunion. You know, real people.
This becomes remarkable only because we don’t get much of that in American TV and films. The powers casting those mediums apparently think we here in the States only want actors who look like they just stepped off a fashion runway or attend Kardashian parties, meaning young, hip, gorgeous, and, most importantly, nipped, tucked, and ageless. Every cop, detective, or precinct captain, male or female, is buffed and bountiful. Nurses, doctors, firemen, lawyers? Hotties galore, not a line in their faces and bodies of god. Even teachers’ll take your breath away.
Sure, there’s a “funny neighbor” who’s allowed to be bald and quirky, a “wise-cracking best friend” who weighs in at chubby and 5 on the hot-scale. There’s that “one guy/gal in the office” who’s (dear God, no!) old. But if you compare the bulk of actors working in American TV with those of a whole host of other countries, you can’t help but notice a marked disparity in the realness quotient.
My husband and I watch a lot of international fare — Scandinavian, UK, Greek, Spanish, Indian, African, Australian, Mexican, South American — and I’m here to tell you: while many of their actors are as gorgeous as any American counterpart, most from these various corners of the globe present as far more real than what you typically see in an American series. Which is refreshing. Appreciated. It conveys a message that, “these characters are living, breathing, aging, existing, not-perfect humans just like you.” How lovely is that?
Because, conversely, watching actors and actresses you know are close to your age (or older) but appear as glacial, plasticine homages to Madame Tussaud with nary a line, wrinkle, sag, or flaw conveys a different message, one that seems to say: “You may be aging like a normal person, but these rarefied specimens of human perfection are the new standard.” Which either makes a person feel less-than, drives them to their nearest plastic surgeon, or triggers an eye-roll. I roll my eyes a lot.
It’s something to do with America’s terror of growing older, of appearing older … of dying, I suppose. Let’s face it: we’re an ageist society. One that far too easily dismisses, devalues, and denigrates our elder populations without blinking an eye. Instead of judging our politicians, leaders, entertainers, and creators based on their work, their continuing contributions; their wisdom and expertise, there’s lots of chatter about their age, and how “planned obsolescence” should be applied to help protect us from aging lingerers. Even 84-year-old powerhouse Nancy Pelosi got an earful.
As someone now in the numbers that trigger that sort of conversation, let me tell you: when you get to those “dreaded ages,” you quickly realize that age alone has little/nothing to do with a person’s worth, abilities, value, or talent. Countless other metrics, instead, do. But as age-terror persists, so does the rush to preempt it with surgical intervention. To the point that even younger and younger people are getting caught up in the trend to “never grow old.”
This, from Women’s Health:
The use of Botox and other neuromodulators has increased 73 percent overall between 2019 to 2022, according to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons (ASPS), and Gen Zers (those born between 1997 and 2012) under 20 are all-in on the growing trend, with Botox injections in those 19 and younger increasing by 9 percent between 2022 to 2023, says the ASPS. And it’s not just injectables: A staggering 75% of plastic surgeons have seen a spike in clients under the age of 30, according to the American Academy of Facial Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery.
I find that concerning. Sad, even. When I was “under the age of 30,” I was carefree and wild, singing in rock & roll bands, and reveling in my youth without attention to my then-unlined face and tight jawline. Nowadays young people are bombarded; there’s even a cottage industry on Instagram, Tik Tok, and other youth-centric platforms where dermatologists and cosmetic surgeons display photos of various celebrities (some quite young), analyzing what they’ve done to their faces and bodies; what worked, what didn’t; what they should stop doing, and what was successful. Lots of commentary ensues, either wailing, “Why did she ruin her face? She was so pretty!!” or “Omg, she looks AMAZING! I need to find someone to do that!”
Is this what we really want for our culture? To be relentlessly messaged that natural aging is to be assiduously avoided at all costs? That the exhausting, unrealistic goal of achieving and/or maintaining ageless, physical perfection, chasing it through thick, thin, and unhealthy practices, is where boys and girls, men and women, should put their rapt attention and seemingly unlimited dollars? Why do other countries embrace their citizens, their actors, their celebrities through all stages of their lives without subliminally (or not so subliminally) demanding they never age, never change, never diverge from youthful, line-free, glacial perfection, and American culture cannot?
But that’s like asking how enough people in this country voted for Trump that he’s now president. Some things are just damnable mysteries of human nature.
I get not loving the aging process. When I noticed my jawline taking a slow but irrevocable detour south, I can’t say I liked it much and did ponder, “If I were rich, and anyone looking at me gave a damn about what my jowls were doing I might just be tempted to talk turkey-neck with a reputable cosmetic surgeon.”
But would I? If I were rich or standing in front of a camera for a living, would I? I hope not. I hope like other visibly, gloriously aging performers, politicians, leaders, and cultural icons I admire, I’d eschew the chemical and scalpel fountain of youth to celebrate exactly who I am. As I do. At this age. With this face and body.
Youthful beauty, grand though it is, is just one kind of beauty. There are others. The beauty of grace, acceptance, feeling at ease in your skin. The beauty of wisdom, life lived, experience gained. The beauty of a Judi Dench, Jane Goodall, or Sophia Loren. Any man or woman who hasn’t panicked, doesn’t resent their years, hasn’t put themselves under a knife to carve away their familiar, beloved, and well-earned features to replace them with the replicant, repetitive faces we see all around us these day … well, that beauty, that fearless beauty, is the kind that sticks till the very end.
We see it elsewhere — when I think of the late Maggie Smith’s beloved, wrinkled visage I just smile — dear American Culture, can we please see more of it here?
