“Crow’s feet,” the woman behind the makeup counter at Macy’s called them, not doing much to disguise her pity at the already-prominent divots that marked my 13-year-old face.

As I fumbled over foundation and lipstick, she suggested I try an eye cream, handing over one inscribed with the words “wrinkle-reducing” and “anti-aging,” which, at the time, were terms I’d only seen on TV commercials and in my mother’s medicine cabinet.

Until that moment, I hadn’t given my premature lines a second thought, but when I looked into the lady’s quietly judging eyes — eyes surrounded by smooth, taut skin — I became painfully aware that these “crow’s feet” she described were not a positive or sought-after feature, but rather something I should feel ashamed of, something I should have tried harder to prevent. Something I should hide.