Being a child in the late forties, I experienced a Mayberry-like upbringing. Back in the day we went out to play till the streetlights came on, rode our bikes to Fisher Field playground to trade baseball cards and play tetherball, and slurped a foreign blue liquid from wax figurines. All good memories, but an incident in my late teens is a funny yet sad reminder of the ingrained, hard to overcome two faces of the teenage girl of the fifties.

It was a Saturday afternoon. The huge rollers in my hair, a sure sign I had a date that evening, were covered with a beige and gold paisley scarf. Except for a light swipe of Hazel Bishop strawberry lipstick, I wore no makeup. My saddle shoes were unpolished and my dungarees (as jeans were known back then) were dusty from an earlier horseback ride. I was with my younger cousin, Joan. We were standing in front of Ford’s Photography Studio on Ridge Road. Displayed in Ford’s window, along with eight other pictures of posed and polished people, was my elegantly framed photograph. I’d had it taken, in addition to yearbook pictures, as a Christmas gift for Mother and Dad and my latest “forever” boyfriend.

My hair was styled in a perfect pageboy. Black mascara, azure eyeliner, and light brown eyebrow pencil brought out my blue eyes. Pressed powder covered any zits, and my cheeks were slightly rosy with just the right amount of rouge. Deep pink lipstick broadened my thin lips. A fake white fur was draped across my bare shoulders and a tiny gold heart pendant highlighted a slender neck. It was a lovely picture.

Joan and I were oohing and aahing as two well-dressed women approached the window. They peered long and hard at each of the nine photos on display, announcing loudly that mine was the most beautiful. They turned to leave, looking me up and down with grumbles of disdain over my disheveled appearance. Without a clue that I was the subject of their favored photograph, they huffed off. My cousin and I laughed all the way home, but the sneering of the two women stuck in my craw. That evening, I transformed myself for my date. “Finally, you’ve got your face on and look presentable,” said Mother, further embedding a skewed definition of acceptable that would stay with me for too many years.

If I wrote down what I saw as the benefits of aging, I’m pretty sure the list would be long. Experiencing grandchildren and great-grandchildren, time for hobbies and travel, appreciating the gift of each day that offers the opportunity for personal growth and aging in good spirits.

High on my good aging list would be giving up the fifties concept of “presentable.” In truth, for years I’ve kept the good memories of life in the fifties. Given today’s turmoil, the kinder, gentler lifestyle is a comfort to remember, but then there’s my dual persona look that day with Joan at Ford’s window. The memory is a clear reminder that I’ve long since ditched the June Cleaver model of perceived perfection.

Unlike the two faces of the fifties, I wear one look these days: a clean, healthy face with a thin layer of moisturizer and a dab of pink lipstick. I have no plans to liposuction my chins into oblivion, or distort my lips with Botox, or take some concoction to burn fat. The beauty that comes with aging well is an inside job. My personal health responsibility is to create a lifestyle, a mindset that owns my reality and balances the negative bombardment of a drug-induced fake youth.

I begin my fresh-face mornings with a dose of mental medicine that is more potent than pills and has remarkable, positive side effects. With steamy hot tea in hand, I commune with aromatic pines and visiting wildlife reciting daily affirmations in the early light. Worded as fact not fancy, they are tools for continuing growth, keeping me on track, teaching me always to value and honor the beauty of an aging woman. “Today I step out of all negative history and into my positive authentic self, a person I nurture and respect.”

Carole Marshall is a former columnist and feature writer for American Profile magazine. Contact her at cmkstudio2@gmail.com.