I went clothes shopping this past weekend, for some winter things. You know. Sweaters, skirts, boots. I went to the usual places, Crew, Banana Republic, Anthropology. And guess what? They were not appropriate!
Not only did nothing fit, or if it did fit didn’t REALLY fit, or it was too young. TOO YOUNG??? Shish. How in the world did that happen?
Everything I tried on was like an age magnifier. All of those gauzy, lacy tops with puff sleeves? Forget about it… all they did was enhance the wrinkles and puffy parts of my face, not to mention the neck that seems to forever be awaiting Thanksgiving. THAT needs covering. So instead of purchasing something airy and feminine, something that wants to float about in wispy clouds of silky fabric I bought, as usual, a black turtleneck sweater. But, this time it’s silk and cotton. Something new!
I tried on skirts only to have tears well up in my eyes as I quickly glanced at myself in the dressing room mirror. Those are my legs? I thought to myself. Those? Why, they’re pudgy. When had that happened? Granted it was a shorter skirt, to the knee. Not above mind you, but a nice sensible length. But it didn’t matter. Nor did the longer mid-calf one I had tried on next. It just looked super dowdy.
Then on to pants. Trousers are what people my age should wear I thought. Not skin tight jeans. No, not anymore. I tried on some nice pants and just stood there staring at myself in that very same mirror. Unbelievable. I could still wear the same size as before, but everything had shifted! I seemed to be looking at a gunny sack filled with flour, sporting a pair of high water pants. They’re for boots, the sales girl said (very professional she was too). You pull boots over the pants. That’s why they’re tight at the ankle and so short.
Well. First of all I never do that. Would never tuck pants into my boots. And second of all who could they have been made for anyway? Not me. It seems younger woman have smaller bellies, and larger posteriors than I. Ummm. So big bellies and flat behinds are what people my age develop. Well. It could be true.
That’s one of the things that made me love Catherine. She has allowed herself to have some meat on her bones. A lot of meat. And she looks great. Her clothes are tailored and simple and elegant. She doesn’t need to fight her aging with youthful duds but rather enhances the elegance of an older woman which can be beautiful.
That’s the tough lesson these days as I balance on the edge of youth-gone-by and maturity. I still feel myself to be young but I’m not. I have to accept the fact that no one will turn their head as I walk by, or flirt with me in some social situation. No. Not anymore. I have to replace that vacant place in myself with the confidence of age, of having lived through the various cycles of time gaining what I now know to be wisdom and plain old common sense. And it’s not bad. Not bad at all. At least as long as there’s a role model such as Catherine to illuminate ones way.
Oh. And by the way. I ended up with that black turtleneck sweater, a black v-neck cardigan, and a cashmere pullover in sea foam green! It looks smashing with my silver hair…
Monday, October 5, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Hair Encore
Where was I? Oh yes. Hair.
I don't feel very happy and doubt even Catherine can bring me out of this funk. It's raining and windy and cold. I just looked into the mirror and it wasn't what I expected. Again. Damn aging! How does she do it? Okay. I know how she does it. Money and plastic surgery. Granted. But there exists a graciousness and sense of herself that transcends everything. That is the essence I long to find in myself. But the search seems fruitless, especially today.
I suppose I could color my hair, which by the way is shoulder length now. Catherine obviously does. But I know myself. I will forget to get it done in time and end up looking even worse than I normally do. It’s already impossible to make those every five week hair cutting appointments.
No, having Catherine as my muse doesn’t mean becoming Catherine. Rather it’s how to graciously age and remain myself. To hold dear the elements essential to who I am and polish them. So as of today I’ve opted to allow the grey to creep thicker and thicker around the edges of my face. Oddly enough there is more creep on one side than the other, which brings to mind the Cruella DeVille look. By that I mean the hair surrounding the right side of my head is silvery grey, while the left side is brown. It’s weird. So weird that I can part my hair on the left, flip my hair over to the left, and voila. No more grey.
However, being me, I choose the grey, and enhance it now. Instead of a blond rinse I’ve settled for a purple one that brings the white out. Kind of cool I have to say.
I don't feel very happy and doubt even Catherine can bring me out of this funk. It's raining and windy and cold. I just looked into the mirror and it wasn't what I expected. Again. Damn aging! How does she do it? Okay. I know how she does it. Money and plastic surgery. Granted. But there exists a graciousness and sense of herself that transcends everything. That is the essence I long to find in myself. But the search seems fruitless, especially today.
I suppose I could color my hair, which by the way is shoulder length now. Catherine obviously does. But I know myself. I will forget to get it done in time and end up looking even worse than I normally do. It’s already impossible to make those every five week hair cutting appointments.
No, having Catherine as my muse doesn’t mean becoming Catherine. Rather it’s how to graciously age and remain myself. To hold dear the elements essential to who I am and polish them. So as of today I’ve opted to allow the grey to creep thicker and thicker around the edges of my face. Oddly enough there is more creep on one side than the other, which brings to mind the Cruella DeVille look. By that I mean the hair surrounding the right side of my head is silvery grey, while the left side is brown. It’s weird. So weird that I can part my hair on the left, flip my hair over to the left, and voila. No more grey.
However, being me, I choose the grey, and enhance it now. Instead of a blond rinse I’ve settled for a purple one that brings the white out. Kind of cool I have to say.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Hair
First off, there's the dilemma of what length hair should be on a woman of a certain age. What would Catherine do? Well. Based on what I've seen lately she has short hair or shoulder length. Gone is the long wild mane of blond she wore as a young woman. It is replaced by a short mane of blond that looks fabulous.
Now, at 53 years of age, this has become a rather important issue. I love long hair. Have always, or mostly had, long hair. Only a few times have I allowed it to be short since graduating from the 7th grade when I stupidly cut my hair in a kind of 60s pixie which allowed me to put a clip-in bow between my bangs and the crown of my head. On some girls it was adorable. On me...less so. Once it was cut and I didn't look like the picture of the beautiful girl with the short hair I'd seen in a style book, I vowed to let it grow forever. Which it did for many years so that eventually in high school and early college I was able to sit on it. But then I had to take care of it, which I didn't do, so ultimately a giant matte formed at the base of my neck which I forever had to work out with my fingers, or heaven forbid, use a comb.
Another short-hair error in judgement occurred right after I'd moved to Manhattan. I must have been testing identities, the only excuse I can come to terms with. In Manhattan you can be completely anonymous, and so, taking advantage of this anonymity, I sheared my hair to within half inch of my skull. Fur-head is what a coworker named me as he'd rub his hand back and forth across my head. Another coworker had done exactly the same thing a few weeks earlier and this particular style looked stunning her. Why can't I learn? Just because something looks great on someone else it won't necessarily look good on me. Well. I made an appointment at her stylist, which was her husband somewhere out in Queens (which should have been another alert), and he gave me the same look. Another failure. Being rather stubborn I kept it should like this for several months. It did feel great. And always looked good...as hair. No combing, no styling, wash and wear. Not flattering on me per se. Luckily when I wised up it only took a short while to grow to a more reasonable length. My hair grows fast.
Anyway. For awhile I thought perhaps I could resort back to my youth and grow it long and braid it down my back. This time it would be beautifully silver, or brown scattered increasingly with silver. And I visualized myself looking young with just this hairdo, svelte, cool, maybe even hippy-ish. Me at 18, with grey hair. Like Georgia O'Keefe! Or Ellen, my friend Catherine's (not that Catherine) friend whom I met a couple of years ago. She must have been in her mid to late 50s but looked fabulous. Thin, beautiful, wearing Levy's and a bulky sweater (she's an artiste of course). Her hair in a thick braid trailing down between her shoulder blades. Even though older, her long hair looked perfect. That's what I'll do, I thought. That will be perfect!
See? That's the dilemma! What looks good as one ages? If you don't look good young with short hair, why do we think we'll look good with it short as a middle-aged person? If we looked great with our long hair in our youth, can it still look good as we watch our face slowly melt from our debatable bone structure? Does the long hair accentuate this meltage? Does it age our faces? Is short hair the deliverance from time?
Who can we ask? Who has the answers? I personally think, since I can find no guidance any place else, Catherine D is the perfect example to follow. She has the answers just by being Catherine Deneuve. Thus begins my journey following in her wake of perfection. But this time, finally, at age 53, I realize I will not become Catherine, but rather will find a way to age gracefully in whatever capacity I can find that fits myself. She has become my muse.
To be continued...
Now, at 53 years of age, this has become a rather important issue. I love long hair. Have always, or mostly had, long hair. Only a few times have I allowed it to be short since graduating from the 7th grade when I stupidly cut my hair in a kind of 60s pixie which allowed me to put a clip-in bow between my bangs and the crown of my head. On some girls it was adorable. On me...less so. Once it was cut and I didn't look like the picture of the beautiful girl with the short hair I'd seen in a style book, I vowed to let it grow forever. Which it did for many years so that eventually in high school and early college I was able to sit on it. But then I had to take care of it, which I didn't do, so ultimately a giant matte formed at the base of my neck which I forever had to work out with my fingers, or heaven forbid, use a comb.
Another short-hair error in judgement occurred right after I'd moved to Manhattan. I must have been testing identities, the only excuse I can come to terms with. In Manhattan you can be completely anonymous, and so, taking advantage of this anonymity, I sheared my hair to within half inch of my skull. Fur-head is what a coworker named me as he'd rub his hand back and forth across my head. Another coworker had done exactly the same thing a few weeks earlier and this particular style looked stunning her. Why can't I learn? Just because something looks great on someone else it won't necessarily look good on me. Well. I made an appointment at her stylist, which was her husband somewhere out in Queens (which should have been another alert), and he gave me the same look. Another failure. Being rather stubborn I kept it should like this for several months. It did feel great. And always looked good...as hair. No combing, no styling, wash and wear. Not flattering on me per se. Luckily when I wised up it only took a short while to grow to a more reasonable length. My hair grows fast.
Anyway. For awhile I thought perhaps I could resort back to my youth and grow it long and braid it down my back. This time it would be beautifully silver, or brown scattered increasingly with silver. And I visualized myself looking young with just this hairdo, svelte, cool, maybe even hippy-ish. Me at 18, with grey hair. Like Georgia O'Keefe! Or Ellen, my friend Catherine's (not that Catherine) friend whom I met a couple of years ago. She must have been in her mid to late 50s but looked fabulous. Thin, beautiful, wearing Levy's and a bulky sweater (she's an artiste of course). Her hair in a thick braid trailing down between her shoulder blades. Even though older, her long hair looked perfect. That's what I'll do, I thought. That will be perfect!
See? That's the dilemma! What looks good as one ages? If you don't look good young with short hair, why do we think we'll look good with it short as a middle-aged person? If we looked great with our long hair in our youth, can it still look good as we watch our face slowly melt from our debatable bone structure? Does the long hair accentuate this meltage? Does it age our faces? Is short hair the deliverance from time?
Who can we ask? Who has the answers? I personally think, since I can find no guidance any place else, Catherine D is the perfect example to follow. She has the answers just by being Catherine Deneuve. Thus begins my journey following in her wake of perfection. But this time, finally, at age 53, I realize I will not become Catherine, but rather will find a way to age gracefully in whatever capacity I can find that fits myself. She has become my muse.
To be continued...
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