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I left my best face in 2005, so I know what my partner really loves about me

I can’t hide the hormone replacement therapy patch on my bum, or that I’ve started sporting the odd grey hair in my eyebrows.

I spent years on the dating scene and know that many women (and plenty of men) lie about their age to prospective partners. Aside from the moral dubiousness of deception, I don’t see how this can be a feasible long-term strategy. I could have told my partner I was 45, but my body would eventually have betrayed me. On one of our earliest meetings I had a perimenopausal hot flush, and while he was very kind about it, he couldn’t have missed how I was pouring sweat and turning a slightly alarming shade of pink.

I can’t hide how my arthritic fingers swell up, or that I am unable to read a text message without my glasses.

I can’t hide the hormone replacement therapy patch on my bum, or that I’ve started sporting the odd grey hair in my eyebrows. And I can’t hide how I require subtitles when watching TV because I struggle to hear the dialogue.

My partner is even older than me (and he, too, quite appreciates a subtitle). He has been grey for years; when he showed me photos of himself as a 30-something with a shock of brown curls, I struggled to recognise him. But my partner is male, and the same rules of ageing simply don’t apply to men. When I show people his photos, the general consensus is, “Ooh! Silver fox!” When he shows people my photos, the general consensus is, “Awww. She looks really friendly!”

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But this is who I am: a friendly, slightly more crumpled version of the younger me. You can’t hide your true self when you’re 54 years old. You have to be prepared to be seen for who you are, with eye bags and creases and melty face. And while this can be challenging, it is also surprisingly liberating. I don’t have to put my best face on all the time because my best face is not required.

I know I am accepted for who I am, and loved for – not in spite of – it all.

When you reach your 50s, you realise that love truly is blind. (And, perhaps, just a tiny bit deaf.) And as my face and I move inexorably forward, it is a comforting thought indeed.

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