In vintage sales, wounded birds are the precious pieces that have flaws. Not beyond repair, but enough to notice. Wounded birds are too beautiful to discard, so they’re sold on with the caveat of visible damage.

I am damaged. And I like things with loose threads and scuffs. Imperfection is a comfort to me, after so many minute worries.

I am surrounded at all times by things loved by people before me. They are soft with age, buffed by touch and scarred with memories.

My clothes are the same. Where silk has caught on a splinter, there is a fine darn of fairy stitches. Here, there was a bleach spot that I embroidered over with a tiny rose. Some damage, no one has fixed – and I have left the record to show that life was lived.

We have to accept the marks of age. In ourselves, in our clothes. A beautiful thing with a few flaws is even more beautiful: it’s a survivor. It needs attention and care. We can patch it up, love it and then pass it on.

I think I need to learn more of these skills for lengthening a life. Repair is so important to our bodies and to the objects we love. Mending is the sacred practice of seeing a future ahead for ourselves and our cherished things.

I’m starting to observe myself aging. “My spell is wearing off.” I stayed out of the sun, I moisturised and I had the childlike genes of my mother on my side. But it doesn’t last forever.

Like with any special vintage piece, I’ve partied in this body. I smoked, I drank, I stayed up all night and all day. I’ve wept and screamed and truly lived in this body. That should show. That life should leave a trace. Our body is the one thing we all wear to death.

Perhaps the facial aesthetics I favour are little mends. We carefully darn the things we love, loving them all the more for their journey. I can’t and won’t erase the signs of aging, but I’ll care for this body so it glows on.

Wounded birds may be delicate but they can withstand, with care. With tiny stitches and gentle hands.