I’ve Turned Into an Ugly Old Hag

And this might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see myself anymore. I see her. She’s me…but not. I see the ghost of myself in her face…but just the faintest glimmer of something I recognize.

The person I see in the mirror is old. And unattractive, at least according to cultural standards of feminine beauty. In fact, she looks so old and unattractive to me, it shocks me.

I don’t feel great about this. But I also don’t feel badly about it, either. It’s a strange phenomenon and a strange feeling.

Does this just happen at my age? I started seeing this woman in the mirror last December. I was halfway between my 45th and 46th birthdays. Is that what happens at the midpoint of the forties? The crone makes her sudden appearance?

Is it the aftermath of Covid, which I contracted in October last year, and which ravaged my hair, making my already thinning hairline almost bald?

I also went through one of the most brutal breakups I’ve ever had last December — one that ended with him ghosting me soon after we became sexually intimate, an experience that keeps happening with only slight variations over and over again. I thought he would at least reach out with an email within a month or two — a vague apology, a final goodbye…something. But he never did. With every passing week that I didn’t hear from him, I felt less and less like a person. I felt like my hope, passion, and joy were hemorrhaging out of me.

And I can’t help but wonder if that contributed to the reflection I see in the mirror these days.

Wasn’t there a movie about a witch who suddenly ages right before the audience’s eyes, her skin drooping, her bone structure becoming more apparent, her eye sockets darkening, her hair thinning and graying?

That’s what it has felt like, these past six months of seeing myself in the mirror. I feel like I’m watching myself age on fast-forward, and now there is nothing left of me but this tired old hag.

Don’t worry about the words I use here. Like I said, I don’t necessarily feel badly about this. Again, I don’t feel good about it, either — that’s for sure. But this feeling isn’t the same as the feeling I’ve had when I’ve struggled with my body dysmorphia issues. I don’t feel hopeless. I don’t feel despair. I don’t feel worthless. (For the most part…)

Though strangely, there is some hopelessness that has come with watching the way I’ve changed in the mirror. A slightly different kind than I’m used to.

I feel quite certain that there isn’t even one cishet man of my age who will ever love me or find me remotely attractive. Pre-Covid, back when I had a normally thinning hairline for a middle-aged woman, plenty of cishet men found me attractive, though none ever found me lovable. Now, I doubt any would find me remotely attractive in any sense of the word.

I don’t mind this terribly, believe it or not, even though it does sound rather hopeless. I mean, even at my best, even in my youth, I was never anywhere near “pretty.” Meeting that standard is almost impossible — especially for someone with a body like mine.

I can never be truly beautiful as our culture defines it because it is impossible for me to be a size 2. I also don’t have the features that make a woman “beautiful,” and I’m not willing to do the work or pay the money to get there, either, like dyeing my hair, wearing the right makeup, or getting a full-body wax every 2–5 weeks.

I’ve known for most of my life that cishet men find my body fuckable (big tits, big ass, small waist, lots of jiggly bits) — but not beautiful. Not beautiful enough to want to enjoy more than a couple times, except under very particular circumstances.

And again, I’ve known for a long time that cishet men do not find me lovable. The older I get, the harder I learn that lesson.

Is it because a cishet man is the most powerful upholder of the patriarchy there is, and therefore is brainwashed into the notion that only women who demonstrate the cultural standard of beauty can inspire their love? Forty-six years and zero successful hetero relationships into this life and I’m beginning to think so.

It’s not for me to figure out, though. I don’t have that kind of time anymore. For now, I’m just going with Occam’s razor.

And yes, I know it all sounds rather hopeless, even after I just said I don’t particularly feel hopeless. But honestly, I don’t. I can accept this somewhat hopeless conclusion that I will probably never be loved, or thought genuinely beautiful by a cishet man, and not feel hopeless about it.

Considering my romantic history with cishet men, it might end up being a good thing if I’m right.

I’ve known for a long time that I was going to become a hag someday. It’s an inevitable part of every woman’s journey.

Please don’t take offense at these words. Hag. Crone.

I love these words. I find them to be empowering. Fierce.

Hags and crones don’t give a fuck about what anyone else things. Hags and crones get shit done. Hags and crones don’t ask for permission — or forgiveness. Hags and crones belong solely to themselves.

I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.

Except…there’s a price we pay for all this. One I have not been looking forward to paying.

The price for being this powerful in a patriarchy is that the patriarchy does everything in its power to erase you. In the simplest of terms, it tells you that you’re old (which in this case is a bad thing) and ugly, which makes you irrelevant.

Frankly, I don’t want to be old in this context. I don’t want to be ugly. And I sure as hell don’t want to be irrelevant.

In another time, in a culture that didn’t hate women so much, I could have all the power of the hag and be revered by my community. People would want my company, rely on my advice, include me in decisions that affect the collective.

And even though it’s hard to believe, at this “advanced” age of 46, I would still find myself the object of men’s desire…and likely even the recipient of their love and respect.

I can only imagine…

Over the past six months, no matter what I do, I have a hard time seeing any beauty in my appearance. There are moments in which I felt a little bit pretty. There are photos I have of myself from this time in which I looked a little bit beautiful.

But mostly, the hag has moved in and it appears she’s here to stay. She means business.

I still don’t know if she’s here because of age, illness, or heartbreak, or perhaps the magical confluence of all three, but ultimately, who cares? She’s here, and isn’t that all that matters?

There is no going back when the crone takes the stage.

It doesn’t feel good. And it doesn’t feel bad. Perhaps what is left is discomfort. Yes, it truly feels uncomfortable. Nothing fits right. My body feels different. And I don’t even know the face that stares back at me in the mirror anymore.

I could try to fix it. Lose the ten pounds I put on since the breakup. Get botox. A breast reduction. A facelift. Find out if there’s a remedy for my scurrying hairline.

I know that’s what I’m supposed to do. Keep myself busy chasing a standard of beauty that will get more and more impossible to meet with every passing year. We don’t want strong, self-possessed, intelligent middle-aged women running around undistracted, after all.

But don’t worry, the older I get, the worse I become at following instructions. I won’t be doing anything to try to fix this, at all. Just gonna sit here and marinate in this ugly.

There’s something about it that feels vaguely useful in ways I cannot fully explain. It’s as if this is part of the process of detoxing from ever again needing sexual validation from a man. That is, I have discovered, as much of a losing game as trying to be beautiful. Both are empty illusions.

I don’t want the illusion anymore. I want to be cared about. Loved. I want something real.

I think this old hag doesn’t have time for anything else. And her appearance is going to assure me that I don’t waste another minute on men who only want sex from me. They won’t look twice at me anymore. Too old. Too ugly.

And at this point in the game, I very much doubt that there’s an available cishet man of my age out there who would care about what’s beneath the surface.

That’s not the end of this story, of course. Not by a long shot. Goddess knows, I have so much more to do, so much love to give, and so much sex to have. With other hags, perhaps, or men who aren’t cis or straight.

The crone in me is inviting me into a different space. And perhaps protecting me from one that was never going to be safe for me.

It’s not an easy journey. But I think it will be a fulfilling one.

© Yael Wolfe 2022

Yael Wolfe is a writer, photographer, and creator of Howl. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com.

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