"You should really think about doing something with your face... before it's too late."

It sounds like something a Mafia boss might say to a sneering underling, but these words were actually aimed at me by a beauty therapist.

In fact, if the terrible truth be told, it was two beauty therapists on two separate occasions. They didn't use precisely the same words, that would be too spooky, but their message was identical: sort your face out luv, or we'll have to sort it out for you.

A bit harsh, you might think, especially as I had made an extra-special effort in preparation for our meetings, actually washing my face (with warm water too, not just the baby's cold flannel) and slapping on a blob of industrial strength moisturiser (73p per gallon drum).

But after surveying their smooth, peachy skin and their glowing complexions, I had to agree they had a point. They were in their forties and sixties respectively, but looked ten, maybe even 20 years younger. I'm teetering on the brink of 35 (all gifts should arrive by Thursday at the latest please), and I look like an over-cooked jacket potato, only without the healthy tan.

As a teenager, my skin was surprisingly good, much to the joy of my lava-faced best friend who was the only girl ever to have to upgrade her Oxy10 to Oxy11. And during my twenties, I like to think my skin didn't let me down. But now, well it just doesn't seem to fit my face properly any more.

It puckers like a pile of cheesecloth left over from a 70s tie-dye festival round my eyes. My forehead has more grooves than Michael Jackson's Thriller. And my jowls - where did they come from, have my cheeks slipped? - now visibly wobble when I walk.

So what, you might quite reasonably think, everyone's skin loses its elasticity as they get older. That's life baby, suck it up. And I would agree with you. The only problem is that I hadn't realised it was happening to me.

Granted, I haven't looked in a mirror since about 1998, when my son was born and all hell broke lose. But I always assumed my skin was plodding on happily without me.

How was I supposed to know it was slowly giving up the will to live, leaving my face looking like a pair of nasty crumpled crimpolene curtains? How was I supposed to know that in a lookalike competition I was more likely to take top prize as Michael Crawford rather than Cindy Crawford, or Dudley Moore rather than Demi.

And I'm not alone. A friend who also has two young kids and several jobs to juggle confided in me the other day that she recently caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and genuinely didn't recognise the face staring back. She only just managed to stop herself from saying "Hello. Can I help you with something?" to the slightly bemused, pale-looking woman surveying her from under her mop of uncombed hair.

I realise that the answer is relatively simple. Drink more water, get more sleep, eat well, exercise, cleanse, tone and moisturise and stay out of the sun. But, simple as it may be, that still sounds like a full-time job to me.

Maybe I should choose to embrace my skin in all its puckered, sagging glory instead, loving each line and worshipping each wrinkle. Maybe I should let my hair grow out into its natural colour too, glorying in the expanding badger's bum stripe of grey that would begin to spread from my parting outwards. Yeah, and maybe I should just buy myself a Zimmer-frame and be done with it.

Now where did I put the number of Demi's plastic surgeon?

Updated: 11:38 Monday, November 29, 2004