Help! I’ve become a frump in my fifties ...like the poor saps I used to tease on TV
How a dressing down by my mate Trinny convinced me something HAD to change as...
IT WAS on my fifth attempt at looking my best for a business meeting recently that I realised something rather important: the woman staring back from the mirror had aged, put on weight and looked a mess. The clothes I wanted to wear no longer fitted or were too young for a 54-year-old. It was as if I had come out of a decade-long coma of denial about how I had let myself go. Rallying, I tried to look at my wardrobe with fresh eyes but found that these eyes now wore bifocals and were unable to laser in to the perfect look that would give me a boost of confidence and enhance what was left of the globe-trotting TV presenter I once was.
‘Christ,’ I thought, ‘I’ve turned into the sort of person Trinny and I used to help.’
Like hundreds of women before me, I have spent the past few years paying more attention to ‘the important things in life’ – my children, my home, my husband and our happiness and welfare. Appearance was for fatuous narcissists who had nothing better to do in their lives other than worry about whether they looked younger, thinner or better dressed than their girlfriends.
I was above that, superior in the knowledge that my husband and I put our family first, worked bloody hard and didn’t put much store on the superficial things in life.
However, in my rather grand attempts to be a ‘good’ person, I had forgotten to be good to myself. And by allowing myself to decay into a tip of neglect, I have not only let myself down but also all the wonderful women Trinny Woodall and I had encouraged to make the best of themselves, no matter what their age, size or situation.
Never mind What Not To Wear, I am a shining example of how not to become.
For those not familiar with our show, we tried to give people confidence through dressing better. We dished out irreverent words of wisdom on how easy it was to look good once you had the tools. If you don’t want your big boobs to look like a second chin (or a third in my case) don’t wear high necks. No skinny jean ever flatters a voluptuous bottom. Ankle straps throttling thick ankles are best substituted for a nude wedge or block heel.
So far, so good. I still dress to hide what I hate about my body – but now find there is very little that I like or want to enhance.
My legs were two of my better assets and these I would show off in lean jeans, figure-hugging skirts always long enough to hide my knees. My waist was small and my breasts large enough to form a slim hour-glass with long limbs, a body shape we coined The Vase. Alas, menopause and chocolate have turned me into
The Goblet (although wine is no longer a particular vice). Think of a long-stemmed glass and there you have it.
THE power of dressing for your shape must not be underestimated. Trinny and I have known women leave abusive relationships, change job and face their bullies all by wearing clothes that raise their self-esteem.
Yet for all my love of clothes, and of dressing others, the truth is that I was never bothered about my own appearance. I would happily have turned up on set in jeans and a T-shirt. Our TV hairdresser would plead for me to wash my hair and Charlotte, our make-up artist, said she needed more than the regulation two minutes to render me camera-ready.
It was all rather trying for Trinny, who was always – and still is – immaculate. When we were off-duty, for example, I had to follow at least 10 paces behind her so that she wasn’t associated with the mufti-wearing tramp that was her presenting partner.
On one occasion, I was in Topshop in the city. Fresh from the countryside, I was in wellies and manures plattered jeans and had straw in my hair. My telephone rang. It was Trinny. ‘Hi Sus. Where are you?’ ‘In Topshop.’ ‘What are you wearing?’ ‘Oh you know. Smart, casual. Jeans and a jacket.’
‘You are a bloody liar. I’m here too and I can see you. You look a disgrace.’
She was, of course, quite right but I didn’t care. With a quick wash, change and flick of mascara, I could turn it around. But it was this knowledge that made me complacent. That and moving to deepest countryside.
As Trinny remarked: ‘You are only moving out of the city so you can get away with looking like s***.’
And yes, this was one of the many benefits of rural living. I wore the same pair of jeans for weeks on end. Hair washing was a rare occurrence… and make-up? Well I did wear a bit of concealer and a puff of blusher, so some standards were upheld.
It was bliss not to have to worry about how I looked and I still had my massive wardrobe of designer clothes in the cellar to fall back on. The problem is that I don’t know how to wear it any more. The slob in m e has become so ingrained.
So what happens if I get invited to a glamorous event? I don’t go, of course. Like many women who have crossed my path, the fear of looking like a car crash has reduced my social life to the odd county show and dinner with a few friends in the safety of their homes.
A friend had a 50th birthday party the other day. She is extremely glamorous and moves in a highly sophisticated crowd. I should have gone but I didn’t because I was too scared. Pathetic, I know. Of course I ought to be bigger than this. I have a wonderful husband, three healthy fabulous kids, live in a warm home with food on the table. That is what matters. But my trivial insecurity is having a big impact on my life. I have a new TV show in the pipeline but the idea of a commission fills me with dread. There is, too, a responsibility to my daughters. I want them to see their mother be proud of who she is. And as for my poor husband...
Well thank the Lord, he loves me whatever. But is he proud to have me clinging to his arm and trying to shine in his reflected good looks and charm? I doubt it. No. The time has come to pull myself together. So I have decided to take the advice I used to dish out to others and dig my way out. The change started last month. We have a great hairdresser in our village and I have been treating myself to a weekly blow-dry.
I wax rather than treating my legs only to the occasional shave – when the hair is long enough to plait. These two things have given me the impetus to do more.
I still find barriers to avoiding change, such as my boobs, which make me look frumpy in certain styles. The clothes that fit over them are too big elsewhere but I feel it’s better to look a bit bigger overall and well puttogether than to appear as if I don’t care.
I know I’m not Elle Macpherson, but there’s no need to be Nora Batty either; I’m settling into a healthier balance of something in between. When I get dressed in the morning, I apply make-up in a considered fashion, but not too much.
If I feel insecure, I’ve started making an effort to boost the old self-esteem. It’s definitely progress, if not perfection. Do I feel ready for a black-tie event? Well, not just yet. But I have a wedding on Lake Como in June and I’m hoping the baby steps taken will lead me back to the old Susannah, who had not an ounce of social anxiety and was as happy to talk to the queen as she was to the footman. I’m looking forward to meeting her again.
Trinny said: I can see you and you look a disgrace...