The terror has lessened slightly as I age, which is convenient. I no longer tear grey hairs out of my head the instant I see them, and instead let those wiry little fellahs fly with a certain level of amusement. (I will, however, pluck that stupid little grey eyebrow hair if it ever dares to show its face again.) But still, as much as I know that wrinkles are a beautiful symbol of experience and (hopefully) laughter and that drooping boobs are just a thing that happens eventually, I just really don't want them to be a part of my life.
These babies done up as old people, somehow, help.
See more at Feature Shoot. Photos by Zachary Scott.