As a woman with daughters, I feel duty-bound to provide a solid example for my girls to grow up into confident women who walk tall. When they start to drive, they should be women who can engage in fiery, intelligent debate with any wily mechanic who enters their lives. When they hit their thirties, I want them to look in a mirror and go, “Ah. A grey hair. How unremarkable. Let me do absolutely nothing about that.” When they edge into their forties and spy forehead lines that have appeared uninvited, they should apply the same strategy as they would for the equally uninvited grey hair.

Setting an example with a dash of hypocrisy

I am not providing as stellar an example as I could as far as point number one is concerned. Much to my bank account’s dismay, I am a mechanic’s dream. I will believe anything a mechanic tells me, such as, “These tyres are only manufactured on Mars so they will cost a trillion pounds and a sack of blood diamonds.” In my heart of hearts, I know that there is the possibility such a statement is not quite ringing with truthfulness, but I tend to err on the side of caution and go with whatever he (it is always a he) says. This is definitely not a lesson I want my daughters to aspire to. Do as I say, girls, not as I do.

However, I am pleased to report that when it comes to points number two and three – allowing grey hair and fine lines to proceed with uninhibited exuberance and defying beauty norms – I am setting an absolutely splendid example. It is a fact that does not please Karachi salon ladies (and other unnamed ladies in my orbit) quite as much, who feel I should be setting the opposite example. White hair is the mortal enemy of desi women, and the ones who live abroad are financially astute enough to factor their hair care into their Karachi trips. “I time my Karachi trips with my hair colouring appointments,” confides Maliha, a brand manager in London with beautiful honey-coloured locks. “I can’t stand the white hair coming through, and I’m not doing it at London prices.”

A certain salon lady, appalled by my lackadaisical attitude to the ravages of time, once attempted to encourage me to take Maliha’s route to hair care and delicately suggested a range of colours suited to my skin tone. “At least try it once,” she suggested in the manner of someone coaxing a small child to try peas. “You might end up liking it!”

The Kate Winslet beauty handbook

Whether I would end up liking it is something we will never know, because I have instead opted to take the Kate Winslet attitude to beauty, which is far more suited to someone unwilling to form a life-long relationship with a salon lady. Last week, when promoting her upcoming film Lee, Winslet was asked by the BBC if she minded looking “less-than-perfect” on screen, to which she replied: “The opposite. I take pride in it because it is my life on my face, and that matters. It wouldn’t occur to me to cover that up. I’m more comfortable in myself as each year passes. It enables me to allow the opinions of others to evaporate.”

Naturally, not all women are as blasé about the opinions of others. “I hate my wrinkles,” says Hannah, a lawyer and mum of three in Edinburgh. “All I can see in the mirror is wrinkles on my face. I spend a lot of mental energy thinking about them.”

So do countless other women, because at my local supermarket, I can order no less than 98 different tubes or lotions or potions to battle wrinkles. These things all come in minuscule bottles that cost an amount that can only be described as “You have got to be kidding me.” As the resident bread-loser (the ying to every breadwinner’s yang), even if I wasn’t actively following the Winslet beauty philosophy, I would much rather throw away money on a mechanic selling Martian tyres than on a pot of cream that promises to turn back time and keep it frozen.

Julia Roberts’ words of widsom

But it is not just Hannah who spends time and energy examining wrinkles. A few years ago when Julia Roberts posted a photo of her playing cards with her niece donned in classic Stern Librarian glasses, she was floored by the number of comments dissecting her looks. Commenters, it transpires, were appalled that a woman in her fifties did not look as though she had just walked off the set of Notting Hill. “You are not ageing well,” one individual felt pressed to let her know, whilst another added, “I can’t believe this is how she looks now.”

‘It made me realise how hard it must be to be a young woman in the age of social media,” said Roberts. “I know who I am and what I want, but comments like that can still hurt. I have mirrors too, but I’m not obsessed with the idea of beauty at all costs. Someone once said that up until forty, you wear your face in your life, and after that, you start to wear your life on your face, which should give me a pretty face because I’m happy with my life.”

Have I lived a happy life? I should like to think so. For one thing, after fattening the wallets of the mechanics around the world, I have learned how to look after my tyres now. Accruing such knowledge that has traditionally been the domain of car professionals radiates the same sense of smug satisfaction that a trip to a salon would. For another thing, I may not be in ownership of dark hair for too much longer, and I may have lines creeping up on my forehead, but at Winslet’s behest, at least I can let the opinions of others evaporate. And as a final message for my girls, I will add this: if you have the swagger of a woman who can manipulate tyres, you will never need the validation of supermarket creams or boxes of hair dyes. You will be cooler than the most ageless beauty in existence. Learn from mechanics. Not from models.

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