Clodagh Finn: In what world is it acceptable to pathologise ageing in girls under 10?

It’s the name-and-shame routine, that two-step dance so beloved of the beauty industry which has been adding clever words to the lexicon of bodily insecurity for decades.

“Kninkles”, though, was new to me. I came across it in a recent interview with Demi Moore, the star of The Substance, a film which, in the words of one review, is “an enraged scream” against the impossible beauty ideals that seep into our consciousness.

And if there is anyone who knows about those hideous standards, it is Moore herself. At one point, when she was married to the younger Ashton Kutcher, people with too much time on their hands decided that she must have had knee lifts because she didn’t have enough “kninkles” for a woman of her age.

At least, you might tell yourself, that kind of intense scrutiny is reserved for celebrities and movie stars.

But is it?

Sadly, I don't think so. It is not that ordinary mortals go around outing other people’s knee wrinkles (or let’s hope not, anyway). The real issue is far more insidious than that.

It seems to me that we have trained the laser-focus lens inwards, internalising the merciless critic that says, 'Would you look at the state of that?' on repeat

Little wonder, then, that a film about the desire to defy ageing has gained such traction. It also seems entirely appropriate that director Coralie Fargeat has given it the body-horror treatment because there is something deeply ghoulish in the way the cosmetic industry feeds on our lack of confidence.

Prepare yourself for blood and squelch as aerobics guru, Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore), considered too old at 50, takes a cell-replicating substance to give gory, violent birth to a younger self, Sue (Margaret Qualley).

The reviews describe the excruciating and spectacularly gross body-horror scenes that are played out over several agonising minutes.

I won’t be watching, not even through laced fingers, yet I’m punching the air that this shocking takedown of the beauty industry caused such a stir at Cannes Film Festival.

For one thing, it has put a 61-year-old Demi Moore back in the spotlight. The irony, of course, is that the woman herself looks like an immaculate, 20-years-younger version of herself. Then again, that is a distinctive plus because it amplifies the impact when she talks of her own destructive cycle of dieting (read starving) and exercise regimes to try to conform to a beauty norm.

She has also been talking about the violence and brutality we do to ourselves in chasing physical perfection. Being hyper-focused on some sort of ‘flaw’ — “kninkles”, for instance — can only end one way. “All of us,” she told one newspaper, “if we start to think our value is only with how we look, then ultimately we’re going to be crushed.”

Measuring stick

Like so many other high-profile actors, she has looked in all kinds of places for answers, from therapy to religion, but it was a tarot-card reader who delivered the nugget that has become a guiding principle.

This is what that wise woman told Moore: “Oh, well, you’ll never be good enough. But you can know the value of your worth. You just have to put down the measuring stick.”

Put down the measuring stick. We should print that on T-shirts and make them in small sizes to give to the pre-teen girls doing daily anti-ageing skin routines.

What kind of twisted world thinks it acceptable to pathologise ageing in girls who are not yet ten? Young boys aren’t immune either, but the pinkification of skincare products on TikTok is not directly aimed at them.

I wonder how many of those young girls already know the names for the wrinkles that will, inevitably, inscribe themselves on their bodies?

That, it seems to me, is part of the issue. I’m always struck by the eloquence — or perhaps that should read malevolence — of the vocabulary used to describe the softening of the human face.

Take crow’s feet, for instance. That’s an old term for what I prefer to call the laughter lines that radiate out from the eyes of someone who has taken the time to see the lighter side of life.

I love those happy creases. They should be considered as a kind of ogham script that bears witness to a lifetime of laughter and the glorious trace it has left behind.

Instead, we dismiss them as “crow’s feet” and try to figure out a way to erase them. We might as well be trying to make water flow up a hill and yet, if you do an online search, you’ll find a plethora of routines and/or products promising prevention, treatment, and cover-up.

The same is true of all the facial features we have turned into body insecurities by naming them — bunny lines, marionette lines, Glabellar lines, the list goes on.

If you are not sure what some of those are, remember that ignorance is bliss. Imagine what might happen, if we stopped naming wrinkles and excised those mean little phases — muffin top, bat-wings, cellulite – that tell us we are not good enough.

Imagine what might happen if we actually befriended our own bodies and wore our wrinkles as badges of experiences in the same way that athletes proudly wear their medals.

The world might start to look very different. Nine-year-olds might not feel they have to worry about ageing, and a six-pack might, once again, describe six bottles of beer.

Best of all though, if we put down the measuring stick, we might also bring the myriad industries that profit from our insecurities to their knees. (And we will be gracious enough not to say a single word about their kninkles.)