Before having children I never really worried about looking older, having been graced with a face that stopped aging at 14. But when motherhood hit it all changed. Out popped a baby, a couple of crows feet, a handful of greys and suddenly all the ID requests stopped. In fact the only time someone has questioned my age post childbirth was when I tried to buy a ‘grout rake’ and to be fair I think that was because, in my haggered, sleep deprived state, the assistant was concerned I might use it as an offensive weapon (which, for the record, would have been futile as it barely scratched the grout).

Nothing quite reminds you of your own mortality like bringing the next generation into the world and suddenly it was as if I’d aged 20 years both physically and mentally. I was confronted with a new identity as a Mum and as a woman who was inevitably getting older and greyer and wrinklier, and five years on I’m still grappling with that identity.

On paper I’m not a fan of de-aging, body modification. Women (and men) should be allowed to grow old gracefully without the need for botox, boob jobs and hair dye. But now that it’s me personally that’s facing the aging process, unsurprisingly,  my view has changed. Who am I to judge if you want to get a few fillers if it means you’ll beat a younger competitor to your dream job?

So do I let it do it’s thing and embrace this new era of femininity or do I grab the bottle of Wella and clutch desperately at the last straws (or hairs) of my youth?

I’d always hoped when I started to go grey I’d be blessed with one of those distinguished Cruella de Vil-esque white streaks in the fringe, but instead its just the salt and pepper effect sprouting randomonly across my scalp. So do I let it do it’s thing and embrace this new era of femininity or do I grab the bottle of Wella and clutch desperately at the last straws (or hairs) of my youth? The half hearted feminist in me says I shouldn’t give in, but the rest of me (the self conscious and vain part) says where’s the harm?  For now I’ll just stick to the tried and tested method of haplessly yanking them out every time my husband kindly points out a new addition.