Who am I going to be when I’m old? I wondered this today while pitter-pattering through the various antique stores of Katoomba. It was the rich diversity of senior females on show that made me ponder this very question. Let’s face it; I am now well and truly middle-aged (gulp). And that whole age-is-just-a-number thing…Puhlease. I know what age is. I visit my Dad in a nursing home every week. One must get her game face sorted before being overcome with the strong tide of old age. It takes no prisoners.
Being a Sydney-sider, the inevitability of soon, just walking around frozen with botox, filled with 3mls of dermal filler, is too…obvious. And, dull. Anyone with a credit card can do that. Add some leisurewear to the mix, a designer handbag, and hello clichè.
But I say no to this soulless and slippery slope from middle age to the senior years. I fear it lacks the pizazz that will keep me interested and interesting. The charming diversity of the Blue Mountains revealed that I had more options than just being of the cosmetically enhanced herd.
It became abundantly clear: there are two distinct roads on this downhill journey of age—go quietly in non-descript clothing, so no one will notice you fading away or go like a bat out of hell, styled to whatever your tangent, and speaking only in unfiltered sentences—no prizes for which road I’ll be taking.
I remember a client of my Dad’s hair salon. Ian’s Hair Fashions was a pale pink building in the middle of Roseville, with his name proudly written in burgundy font, and it was as camp as the name suggested.
Dad had completed his apprenticeship in the late 60s. And although he spent most of his days perming and setting women’s hair who kept their same appointment till death, he could still do an impressive 60’s beehive.
Mrs Boyd was European. She often wore tight Pucci print clothing, had platinum blonde hair, perfect black winged eyeliner and was escorted by a doting husband. Mrs Boyd would arrive every Friday afternoon, dressed in another figure-hugging ensemble, black eyelined eyes piercing through oversized sunglasses. She was an aloof character.
I remember Dad recounting a story about Mr Boyd, her husband of royal lineage, with great pride. He often travelled for business, and on this occasion, had returned home with a collection of designer bikinis for his beloved trophy wife. They were each worth 100s of dollars (big coin in the 90s), to be worn, no doubt, with her unwavering panache on their next luxury escape.
I saw them many years after Dad had closed his much-loved business. They shuffled into the nail salon I was in – both of them so much older, rigid and bent with arthritis, her barking orders at him in Hungarian yet still wearing black eyeliner and a platinum blonde chignon. When it came to style, she never dropped the ball. Age would not rob her of that.
Could moving onto the senior years be a time of total style re-invention? Being an eccentric will be my future (if it hasn’t happened already). Should I, perhaps, start with rockabilly fashion? That always looks amazing on a 60-year-old. Or do I embrace an old Hollywood look like the woman who sold vintage clothes in the antique store today? She was outstanding in a messy chignon, an incredible 50’s coat, synched in at the waist, high heels, dark sunglasses and a piercing over the top voice (some would argue I have already taken on some of these attributes).
I’m also quietly obsessed with becoming an aging cowgirl. Western wear is so timeless and effortlessly cool. A year ago, deep into Tiger King, it was not only the insane storyline that had me hooked but the FASHION. Was I the only one who went weak at the knees for Joe Exotic’s fringed leather jacket, neck chokers and mullet? And don’t get me started with my already ample stock of leopard print.
Or should I go the full Von Troska? Perhaps, dye my hair brilliant copper, chop it off to a bob, get an assortment of Dinosaur Design statement necklaces, some velvet smocks to wear over a black pant and then patronise the Ensemble theatre of a weekend? (It is, in fact, walking distance. Perfect for a night on the white wines.)
Perhaps I could throw them entirely off the scent and look like an old groupie by wearing vintage band T-shirts over black leather pants, boots and a biker jacket? The delicious options are quite endless. And why settle for just one look? The world is our oyster.
So friends, as we advance into the sunset of life, why not let our style tell the story of a history well-lived? May it hint at our most treasured adventures— European romances, dancing to the wee hours at secret locations, getting lost in foreign cities only to be found, making lifelong friends, meeting incredible strangers and falling in love.
Youth is the gift of nature, but age is a work of art.