The secret of happiness for the over-50s? staying vain!
tHe air was heady as hundreds of women, ranging in age from 35 to 70 (and counting), wafted fragrantly into the room.
But even more arresting was the fact that, without exception, it was those over 50 who’d really pulled out all the stops at the charity event i was speaking at. each one was not just expensively perfumed, but expertly made-up and dressed to the nines.
While some of the younger ones looked rather like they’d just fallen out of bed, or rushed the kids to school without brushing their hair, the loos were crowded with women of a certain age re-applying their lippy and checking for VPl in the mirror.
You might, if you wished to be unkind, call this an exercise in mass vanity. And in many ways, i would be inclined to agree — only i refuse to accept being called vain as a criticism, and claim it as a compliment instead.
Contrary to the notion that once past a certain age it’s hardly worth bothering, because men stop noticing you anyway, i find it immensely cheering that, far from over-50s reconciling themselves to becoming invisible, this is when women take an even greater pride in their appearance. A pride which only increases as the years go by.
that’s not to say that i cared any less about my appearance in my 30s than i do now, although i certainly devoted less time to it. Going fresh-faced and natural may have given the illusion of modesty, but it was simply a viable option.
Now in my 60s, the no make-up look equals drained and decrepit, rather than carefree, so no wonder it takes me a good half hour longer to leave the house. i sometimes even put on make-up when i’m not planning to go out at all, in order not to depress myself when i pass the mirror in my bathroom.
Whereas once i could wash and go in 20 minutes flat, my hair has now thinned and needs washing and painstakingly blowdrying every second day.
And to fill in the ever-widening parting, i have to sprinkle on Viviscal, tiny hair fibres that fill the gaps and make it look thicker. these days i don’t even go out to walk the dog without a slick of lipstick and a quick brush of the mascara wand.
VAiN as that may seem, i am not alone. Although i knew few of the women at my table at this charity brunch, i soon found myself engaged in banter about our lives and our families. One, well into her 60s, giggled as she told me that her 38-yearold daughter was finally getting married. ‘i told her a decade ago that she needed to hurry up because i wanted to wear a sleeveless dress at her wedding! But it’s taken her a whole ten years, and now i’m going to have to wear sleeves!’ Vanity, certainly, but not without self-knowledge and a sense of humour.
Another sexagenarian, a breast cancer survivor with a penchant for short skirts and leopard-print ankle boots, described herself to me as ‘wayward’. ‘i like to look a bit different,’ she said.
Having lost her confidence while going through chemotherapy, when her hair grew back she ditched the blonde dye she’d previously used to disguise her greys, and reverted to the auburn of her youth that speaks not of narcissism, but of renewed vitality.
As for me, who spends all day communing with my computer and doesn’t exactly need to buy myself smart daywear, i confess the minute i accepted the charity’s invitation to speak — and before i’d even given a moment’s thought to what i was going to say — my attention turned first to what i was going to wear.
Only when i had splashed out on a dress, nude tights and a pair of heels that looked the biz, and hurt like hell, did i get down to writing my speech. Vain? Yes, but i’m in no doubt that feeling and looking good only aided my delivery.
Why should vanity become a dirty word, when we women are praised from chil dhood f or prettiness, and complimented on how we look? When i was little, whenever we went away on holiday, my ever-glamorous mother would clutch her vanity case to her bosom as though it housed the crown jewels. to me, it had an aura of magic: turning the tiny golden key and flipping the mirrored leather lid, i would marvel at the array of lotions and potions that make up a woman’s beauty armoury, corralled in their handstitched compartments. No wonder the word vanity came to have positive connotations for me. As teenagers, my girlf riends and i would spend f ar too l ong peering into mirrors, trying on clothes we c ouldn’t af f ord, encouraging each other to experiment with makeup. it was a means of bonding, a collect i ve vanity t hat, ironically, paved the way to a collective sisterhood that still holds firm. there may be much to be said for the Mary Beard approach to life, whereby the sheer force of your confidence, intellect and charisma allows you to cast aside the trivial pursuits of fashion, cosmetics and regular haircuts.
But what’s wrong with having surfaces, as well as depths? Why shouldn’t women break through the glass ceiling in Mac lipstick and estee lauder mascara?
When the Apprentice star Karren Brady took ermine recently in the House of lords, she was mocked by this paper’s own sketch writer for the height of her heels, the quantities of slap she wore and her highlighted hair: ‘groomed as though for Crufts’.
Well, i wanted to yell bravo, because i n my eyes her glamour only enhanced, rather than diminished, her success. i felt the same, a fortnight ago, when Helen Mirren, 69, become the new face of l’Oreal. though i wish she weren’t the only older woman being wheeled out as proof that our generation can cut it in the beauty stakes, her appointment only affirmed my belief that, however time has withered me, rather than giving up on my looks, they’re still worth taking care of.
Hold on to your vanity with hoops of steel i say.
i’m not talking about an artificial attempt to hold back the years — to convince the world you’re 40 when you’re 50, or to succumb to the surgeon’s knife — but a commitment to making the most of yourself, and looking and feeling the very best of your age.