I expected men to ignore me WHEN I WENT GREY but it was far more hurtful to find I’m INVISIBLE TO WOMEN TOO
dolled up for a girls’ night out. We make the effort for one another.
Who better to appreciate that great pair of earrings you just bought, or the vintage coat you scored unexpectedly on a trip?
As a novelist, I am fascinated by women in particular; by how they think, what their emotional lives are, what they are wearing. I could sit in a corner of a restaurant alone and amuse myself for hours, people-watching. I used to like the fact that I was also a subject for other people-watchers.
My snakeskin boots often got compliments when I went out. The fabulous poncho that makes me feel like a rodeo queen was commented on everywhere I went. The Moroccan kaftan that swept me to more exotic places was praised whenever I wore it.
These days, the whole lot may as well be cloaked in black bin liners for the lack of impact they make.
I will say my clothing is not for everyone. A few years ago, when my hair was pink, I was at a concert (new wave) in my usual outfit of animal-print flares, furry clogs and a checked jacket. A group of women my age drunkenly swarmed around me. ‘We love your costume!’ they cried in delight. I didn’t have the heart to tell them it wasn’t a costume. But I was delighted that they at least saw me, that I was worthy of note.
It had taken me a long while to establish my sense of style. I’d spent most of my life trying to fit in. If floral maxi dresses were all the rage, that’s what you’d find me in. I once went to a party where all the women — including me — were in floral maxi dresses and denim jackets. It was like a school uniform.
It was only when I turned 50 that I decided to experiment sartorially. I found myself gravitating towards my more art school, bohemian roots. I fell head over heels in love with Morocco and its kaftans and abayas, and developed a deep passion for the looks of the late 1960s and 1970s.
I no longer wanted to look like everyone else. I embraced my uniqueness, rather than trying to fit this square peg into a round hole. I finally figured out my own style, instead of attempting to follow the crowd, or fashion. Sporting pink hair for a couple of years was great — a true rebellion against the norm — but the truth is I am too low-maintenance to keep it up.
I hadn’t realised that letting it go grey would prove to be even more radical.
However much I may love it, however much it may suit me, there is no denying how ageing it is.
And this despite my cool outfits, my, ahem, fashion-forward sense of style. Younger women don’t notice the clothes, they notice the hair — and once they see the grey,
I do care when I feel irrelevant and, sadly, old
everything about me fades into the background.
Although I like to think that I no longer care what people think of me, I’ve discovered that I do care when people don’t think of me at all. When I feel irrelevant, invisible and, sadly, old.
I don’t know what the answer is. I do know that there is clearly still work to be done on my journey of self-acceptance.
I also know that I don’t want to dye my hair, even though it would shave years off me.
Instead, I’m working on embracing myself as a silver sister. I want to feel secure enough in my skin that I no longer need the admiration of the female gaze.
I want to believe that I am just fine exactly the way I am, silver strands and all. Regardless of who does — or doesn’t — notice me.