My husband said menopause had made me too old to be attractive. I swallowed my anger that night—but one look at his grandma’s old photo gave me an idea. By the next evening, he’d wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
At fifty-three, I had developed a bad habit of checking my reflection in anything that would give one back.
Bathroom mirrors, store windows, the black screen of my phone.
That morning, I caught myself leaning toward the microwave door while waiting for my coffee, studying the tiny lines around my eyes.
Barrett became increasingly sensitive about his appearance.
“Claire, you’re gonna burn your face off staring that close.”
I turned and found my husband, Barrett, in the kitchen doorway.
He leaned toward the hallway mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. “Does this side look thinner to you?”
“Your hair?”
“What else?”
“You asked me that yesterday.”
“Because yesterday you said no.” He turned his head toward the light and frowned. “I’m serious, Claire. Look.”
“Do you have to point out every new wrinkle?”
I carried my coffee over and inspected his temple with exaggerated concentration.
“I see a handsome fifty-six-year-old man with a perfectly normal amount of hair.”
“Fifty-six wasn’t necessary.”
Barrett became increasingly sensitive about his appearance over the past year:
✔ Expensive face creams in our bathroom
✔ Vitamins I’d never heard of
✔ Three different shampoos promised thicker hair
I used to find his vanity funny.
Then menopause started, my own body began changing, and somehow Barrett’s fear of aging stopped being limited to Barrett.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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