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Lately, I’ve been noticing more wrinkles around my wrists.
I’ve always had small hands and feet. When I’d visit my paternal grandmother, she would tell me my hands were small and slender. An artist’s hands. Perfect for making little trinkets and things. We’d use our hands to fold dumplings for soup. We’d roll and press little indents into rice cakes for Lunar New Year’s in Korea. She’d buy us crayons and origami paper whenever we came by.
I slide my hands into the LED UV machines for my gel nails, hardening the intricate designs. I always get worried about the UV light burning my skin. I wonder if I need sunscreen for my hands. I think about how Kris Jenner got a facelift but always hides her hands in long, taut gloves, because unlike the face, the skin there can never really be “fixed.” Despite looking more like Kim every day, her hands will show the years she has lived.
I hate admitting that it scares me on some level. The fear that my hands will get old, and that my face will (god forbid) inevitably reveal my true age. I hate that. I hate that I feel this way.
I still remember asking a group of my girlfriends in middle school in Korea, enthusiastically, that we should promise to never get cosmetic surgery. None of them were as enthusiastic to agree, and I remember that moment left such a strong impression on me my whole life. I still feel that tinge of fear that no one in the pack agreed with me, or maybe no longer liked me so much for saying such a thing. Now, I don’t think I would recognize any of them on the street anymore. When I stalk them on Facebook or Instagram nowadays, I honestly don’t feel like I’m looking at the same girls I used to know. (Most girls get double eyelid surgery in Korea as a rite of passage at age 16 or 18, right before college or high school when their new friends won’t know what they looked like in the grade levels before). They were complete strangers, after I left Korea for the U.S. as well.
I want to say (and I believe it) that anyone should be able to get whatever procedure they want, whether it’s gender-affirming or honestly just for fun. The difference between botox and eyelash lifts and nails and a butt lift and eyebrow waxing always felt so blurry to me. There’s never a perfect line to be drawn of what is too excessive. But I’ve seen too much growing up in Korea to always agree or promote or even support every single one of these procedures wholeheartedly.
I remember one day in Elementary school my mom couldn’t pick me up from an after-school program, so my friend’s mom came to pick me up from school. From the back seat, even underneath the white bandages from some sort of cosmetic skin procedure, I could tell her face was red, inflamed, and bruised. Small bruises dotted her face like dark cosmic black and blue stars. I don’t remember the exact conversation we had but she told me not to be afraid and that I would understand and have the same problems when I was older. It was no big deal, as she explained it all to me. I remember not saying much or even saying anything at all. I honestly don’t know if there’s even a lesson to be learned from this, but I know that I’ll never forget that specific car pick-up, even though I was picked up from school almost every day by many other people my whole childhood.
I think about the harsh stares and judgments still, the unfair standards I felt raised to in Korea. Even being called names by old men (who are probably all dead now) on city streets for wearing shorts I bought from American Eagle as a 14 year old. I remember being uncomfortable wearing tank tops even at home alone, afraid of baring my own shoulders to myself in the mirror. I don’t think I even properly owned a non-athletic tank top I wore publicly around outside (in the U.S.) until college started. This was during an era when K-pop was rising and the exorbitant costs of procedures were being quietly normalized–all while the pressures of luxury goods, of saving face, of showing off, were pulling people into increasing debt. Even in the U.S., I remember everything my body was called or complimented for, by all kinds of people: women, men, gay, straight, classmates, coaches, adults, strangers. I was a skinny-legend, chubby, too thin to be a hockey player. I had soft skin, long hair, short hair, thick hair. I had baby fat around my face. I had a long neck. I had almond eyes. I was short. I had a button nose. I had strong legs. Even when I think I don’t remember, I can recall every single thing I was called, recite it all from memory alone.
Most of all, I still remember the hurt it caused me. How much my body was subject to cruel, harsh scrutiny, all in the name of aesthetics.
Instead, I’m reminded by the wrinkles around my wrists: I hope I’m remembered for the things I’ve made with my hands. Of the people I’ve touched and held in my arms. I hope I’m remembered for the pushups and chaturangas I’ve struggled to push through in class. For the strength I used to lift my body up just a little bit higher.
At 25, I feel old and young at the same time. New and forgotten. Yet my hands will always stay the same but also continue to age. They will always have worked and endured.
I remember my hands patchy and dry in those Korean winters, my eczema flaring, skin scaly and tight. I remember my whole body sore from ice hockey, the hours spent stick-handling with the puck, the basketball layups, the heavy equipment loaded into U-Haul trucks. I remember the smell of the heavily scented hand lotion my mom taught me to apply to take care of my skin. Every bend, every twist, every push, every resistance that came up against those hands. These lines deepen and etch into my skin like a tattoo. Like they each hold a memory.
Love,
Sky <3
