The age-old question all women They say a young man need only look at his mother-in-law for a picture of how his wife will age - and new research bears out that age-old adage. Scientists in Sweden and Germany have discovered that genes passed down from our mothers determine how we look as we grow older. Femail asked four writers to compare themselves to how their mothers looked at the same age - and reveal how they felt at the prospect of turning into their mums... I shared my mum's beauty secret - drinking nettle water Jenni Murray, 63, says When I was in my late 30s and my mother was 60, we'd go shopping or out to lunch together. Shop assistants and waiters would invariably refer to one or other of us as 'your sister'. It made my mother, Winifred, preen herself with delight, while I gritted my teeth with barely concealed fury. Writer and agony aunt Jenni Murray (l) and Jenni Murray's Mother Winifred Bailey aged 64 in 1990 (r) 'Actually, she's my mother,' I would bark. She would giggle and remind me that, one day, I'd be thrilled to be out with a much younger woman and be asked about my sister, or be tripping around with one of my grown-up sons and have people assume I'd acquired a toy boy. As with so many other things I've discovered as I've grown older, my mother was wiser than I ever gave her credit for - and, in this case, she was absolutely right. Like all of us, she had the laughter lines that form around the eyes and mouth and are, when viewed in the right way, the mark of a life well and gaily lived. But at 63, the age I am now, she had no wrinkles. I look at this picture of her often because it's one of my favourites - a wry smile on a face that glows with warmth. She smiled a lot. I miss her. She often quoted the Marlene Dietrich line: 'Darling, when you are young, never smile, it causes wrinkles. When you are old, smile all the time. It hides them! Jenni says her mother, at 63, the age she is now, had no wrinkles I'm not convinced of the Dietrich line, though, as my Mum, wrinkle-free in her old age, always seemed to have a smile on her face as a young woman, except when she was seriously cross with me! Even when she died aged 80, after months suffering the debilitating impact of Parkinson's disease, her skin was plump and soft. She never put it down to genetics, even though my maternal grandmother had an equally lovely complexion into her old age. My gran said it was entirely down to being made to drink the water in which green vegetables had been cooked when she was a child. She was particularly keen on nettle water (it's an old working-class skincare treatment, whereby nettles were soaked overnight in cold water, strained and drank), and put my mother and me through the same regime. My mother had complete faith in a strict skincare routine. Morning and night, she insisted on a good wash with cleanser designed for the job. She never used a flannel and warned me not to rub too hard. All that was needed was a gentle massage with the fingers and palms. Warm water to begin, then as cold as you could stand it to rinse. Pat dry then gently apply moisturiser in an upward motion, never dragging at the skin around the eyes. Include the neck and upper chest and avoid wearing foundation unless absolutely necessary. I don't know whether it's drinking nettle water, the washing, moisturising and gentle handling or the genes, but I do know I am grateful to my mother and grandmother. My skin is pretty good, too, and I can see I have the same sort of look as Mum did. A glance in the mirror, and a glance at this picture, tell me all I need to know about turning into my mother. I am lucky. If I age like her, I won't need botox Kitty Dimbleby, 33, says There are many things I'm thrilled to have inherited from my mother, Bel Mooney. Her love of a good party and a few glasses of wine, her passion for words and people. She has many more qualities I would be flattered if people saw in me. Her generosity, talent as a writer, the kindness and love she shows as a mother and a daughter. I was delighted when I read about new research showing that how well we age can be directly linked to our mothers. If that's the case, I feel as if I have won the DNA lottery. My grandmother looks amazing at 89, and at 66 Mum looks better than most 50-year-olds. Kitty Dimbleby (l) and mother Bel Mooney with her daughter Kitty, 1980 (r) Examining these snaps, I see the truth in the research. We are both 33 in the pictures, and I'm delighted to realise Mum and I look more alike than I'd thought. I'm holding my daughter, Chloe, while Mum holds me as a baby, and our smiles radiate pride and contentment. The lines around our mouths are identical - a double wrinkle indicating years of broad and toothy grins. Both of us have fringes: perhaps I learnt from her that a fringe can take years off you. Mine hides a multitude of wrinkles that make me look more anxious than I am, while her high forehead has been lined since she was young. Kitty Dimbleby We are both new mothers in these pictures, so our eyes have tired shadows below them. Crow's feet fan out slightly more prominently on my face than Mum's, but then she's always been very conscientious about eye cream. Mum at my age looks young and radiant, which makes me think that perhaps I'm too hard on my own reflection. I examine myself critically, force back (imagined) wrinkles with my fingers and tell my husband that next month I want Botox. Seeing my face next to my mother's at my age, I feel happier about my gathering wrinkles. They map the story of my life in my face and are a link to her. If I continue to age as she has, I won't need Botox. Perhaps one day my daughter will look at these pictures and recognise the same lines developing as I have today. I hope she'll see them as a link to her mother and grandmother, and feel proud of them, too. It's so unfair I've got more lines Candida Crewe, 49, says My mother, the author and former BBC TV presenter Angela Huth, will be 75 next week, and boasts a wonderful face of wrinkles. She was considered to be something of a beauty in her day. I look at photographs of her in her youth, taken by the likes of Patrick Lichfield, and gasp at her flawless skin, her glamour, her beauty. I look at this photograph of her at my age - 49 - with a few creases anchored to her bright smile, and I think that she looks simply amazing. In this photo she is less wrinkled than I am - which is unfair as, unlike me, she spent a lot of time in the sun. Candida Crew (l) and her mother Angela Huth's ageless glamour (r) But our laughter lines seem to be etched in the same places. I am following my mum's wrinkle map, even if I am slightly ahead in this particular race. She looks fantastic in this photograph. There are a few faint lines around her mouth, but her cheeks and chin are enviously smooth, her complexion that of someone in their 30s, and her eyes seem completely unblemished by time. Like my mum, I don't have bad crows' feet, but still I compare myself unflatteringly. I am a little concerned about the new lines that run from the sides of my nose towards my mouth like umbrella spokes. Mama also has these in the photograph - same shape, same direction, only less pronounced and altogether better on her, perhaps because they are winningly off-set by her beautiful cheekbones. Today she exudes a different kind of beauty. Her fabulous face is more wrinkled than it was 25 years ago, of course. This is testament to a life lived fully, brimming with love, joy and laughter as well as the usual doses of pain and anxiety - a divorce or two, career ups and downs, moving house, the worry of being a parent, and now a grandparent. Candida Crewe's mother's face is a testament to a life lived fully, brimming with love, joy and laughter Sometimes, I have watched my mother sitting at her dressing table, pushing her cheeks up with her fingers in a vain attempt to replicate what she might look like after some surgical work to eliminate her wrinkles, especially the umbrella spokes. I scoff at her and say: 'Don't even think about it.' Her wrinkles are what make her now. Why would she wish to go back to a time before all the joy and laughter of the past few years? I look at Mama who, unlike so many of her contemporaries and a few of her friends, has never succumbed to the knife, and I think how lucky I would consider myself to have the same wrinkles at 75. They would mean that I, too, had led an interesting life full of ups and downs and extreme emotions, good and bad. I never had my mother's youthful beauty: I was always plain. But now I see my face is following hers, that the creases carved by character and experience are shared, I feel blessed that I have, at last, inherited something of her looks. Her face shows less stress Esther Rantzen, 73, says A sign hanging in my kitchen says: 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all.' I'm shocked to discover, at the age of 73, that the saying has finally come true. These days, when I catch sight of myself in a shop window, there she is, my mum, Katherine Rantzen, just as I remember her. The creases in my brow are hers, my eyebrows lift like hers, my cheekbones are as round as hers, even my nose seems to have become my mother's. It's eerie, but nonetheless lovely. Esther Rantzen (l) and her mother Katherine Flora Rantzen (r) Though she died ten years ago, looking at this photograph of her at the age I am now reminds me that I haven't lost her entirely. She has imprinted herself upon me. My mum belonged to a generation when it was still rare for a wife and mother to go out to work, so although my mother could have become an extremely able businesswoman, she never had a career. Instead she devoted herself to her family and to her favourite charity, a day nursery in the East End of London. I wonder if her face shows less stress than mine. I think she had a far better work/life balance than me, but she enthusiastically supported my workaholism, and never criticised me. She wasn't a vain woman and spent far less than me on cosmetics, but then I have had the harsh high definition TV lights (and the cruelty of critics) to contend with. I never knew her spend a weekend at a spa: she wasn't keen on massages or facials, and nor am I. When I attempt to apply my lipstick without a mirror, just as she did, I achieve the same smeary results as my mother. When I was young, I never thought I looked like her. She was always a pretty woman, with wide-spaced blue-grey eyes, a tip-tilted nose and deep dimples when she smiled. She had a mischievous sense of humour, and loved shocking self-conscious teenagers like my sister and me. You could read that merriment in her eyes. I have a long face and prominent teeth inherited from my father, and a large chin. My eyes are darker than Mum's, and though I spent hours trying to recreate her dimples by pressing a sharp pencil into my cheeks until it broke, I failed. Where Mum had dimples, I have deep laughter lines. My smile is almost identical to hers, especially now that generations of talented dentists have fixed my notorious teeth. Our colouring is different. Her hair went white when she was my age, and her face was framed with curls. But my face is so much like hers that I am taken aback by my own reflection. How and why has age changed the contours of my face to match hers? That I do not understand, but I am glad of it.