If mirrors had time travel devices built into them

One day I will be old.

I'm old now, but one day I will be really old. As old as this lady in the left-turn lane facing my lane, pulled out just a little bit too far because old people lose reaction time and spatial coordination. Her mouth is a blank line, her face is a yellowed hatchet, her hair is wiry and grey and done. One day I'll be as old as her. My hair will be as grey as hers.

Will I wear it long, like the long-grey-haired knitting ladies? Maybe if your hair goes grey, it's best to cut it really short, short and very chic, a very chic urban geometric sort of cut. And then I won't look quite so old as the hatchet-faced lady whose car is a bit too far out in my lane so I have to swing around it slightly to drive past, or like the knitting ladies - they are like younger women startled by oldness, still wearing their hair in their young-girl styles, chin length and held back by barrettes, but now suddenly and surprisingly grey, or maybe it has turned grey suddenly since the last time they looked in a mirror and they haven't had time to notice yet and make adjustements. I don't want to be grey like the knitting ladies, and I don't want to be old like the lady in the car making a left-hand turn, a bit too eagerly.

I want to be chic, and maybe my hatchet wrinkled face will look like I smoked too much, even though I didn't, or like I tanned too much on expensive beaches or went to the tanning salon, even though I did neither. Or ate only greens and protein during my 30's, my 40's, my 50's - how many e's do you get before you are truly old-old? Maybe I will look rich and tanned and healthy and debauched. Rather than just old. Rather than just like an old woman.

One day, though. I will be. What will you see when you look at me then?