I looked down at the array of jars and bottles on the table with a distaste bordering on religious. With a sigh of resignation, I mentally reviewed the litany that would guide me through this largely arcane process. "Cleanser, astringent, toner, moisturiser, funny-smelling cream..."

It all started when I was out having coffee with my young lad. We were spotted by some of his friends, and he went over to chat with them while I stayed at the table and read the papers. HE had an odd look on his face when he came back. I raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"They asked me who's the old guy I was with." The soul of tact, he was, this boy of mine.

Forcing a smile that would have done Martha Stewart proud, I pretended complete nonchalance as I asked him what he had told them. I was a tad pleased when he told me he'd proudly asserted that I was his boyfriend, and what of it? I nodded and went back to the conversation we had been having. Then I went home and looked for something to break.

The next day, I sat down my bordering-on-faghag female colleague, and told her what had happened.

"Do I REALLY look that old?"

"Glenn, to 22-year-old eyes, everyone looks old. However, all that smoking IS screwing around with your complexion."

"Don't start on that. The lung cancer will get me before the wrinkles do."

"But you ARE in your 30's, so you need to take SOME steps. We're going shopping after work."

That evening, we trooped down to Shangri-La Mall (one of the cruisiest malls in the city), and I followed her around the beauty section while she gave me a crash course on the things people did to complicate their lives. "Get that grimace off your face, it'll give you crow's feet," she said while browsing the shelves.

All my life, I'd never been into all the fuss people go to over beauty. I don't even use shampoo, just soap. I used to think it was all just frippery, and that I didn't need it. Reality is a cold teacher. Perhaps it was easier for people who'd gotten used to the routine - one of my friends has been using moisturiser since he was 19! But suddenly, I'd been thrust into needing all this stuff, if I wanted to retain what little youthful beauty I'd ever had.

So I tried to adjust and learn. Moisturiser before I went to bed. Sunblock before I went out. Mask twice a week. My facial schedule was becoming more complicated that my work calendar! Of course, I often forgot, or there were days that I couldn't be bothered, or was too drunk to care before I fell asleep.

---

One night, however, when I was patting a last bit of "zesty lemon mask with activating ingredients" onto my face, I looked at my mud-covered mug in the mirror and felt completely, and utterly ridiculous. I said to myself, "Fuck it, this isn't me." And I realised that not only had my perceptions about "frippery" changed, but my normal contrary nature had drastically changed, as well. I'd started caring about what people thought!

Dangerous ground to walk on. I've always prided myself on my individualism, my stubborn unwillingness to be dictated to by the views of other people, as my mother knows all too well (no, I'm not fixated on her, she's just a convenient example). I was secure enough in myself - someone being nasty won't piss me off too much. Growing up gay in a country that feeds you machismo with your birth milk, it was the only way I could take some measure of pride and comfort in my homosexuality. Which was compounded when I discovered the whole "cult of the body" mentality some people had in Singapore (where my aversion to the gym and non-bedroom exercise didn't help). But I still kept my "take me or leave me" attitude, and more often than not, people who knew me "took me".

Looking into that mirror, I realised that I'd been judged and found wanting by those young gay boys. But the bigger crime was in letting it affect me. I'd been young once, with all the shallowness and callowness of youth. I'm sure I'd made the same sort of judgement back then, and this was payback. But I figure a couple of thousand bucks worth of "frippery" was payment enough.

Course I didn't throw all the stuff out - I'm not totally an idiot. I still use some of the stuff that was actually nice, and gave the rest to my friend.

And as for my young lad, he'll just have to accept the fact that his man's getting older, and that there will always be comments about our age difference. The fact is I can't change my biological state, though I can try to change my fetish for cute twinks.

Or maybe not. Baby steps, baby steps.