NO-ONE CARES HOW I LOOK - except me!

Piling on clothes to counteract cold, damp wintry Britain I start with a black thermal vest and leggings. I add a polo neck or shirt followed by a thick jumper and cord trousers, long socks and a scarf or neck-warmer. By the time I’ve put on thermal gloves and woolly hat, a coat and wellies to go out, I am comfortably warm and rather bulky. The temperature today is just 4 degrees, and there are the heating bills to think about.

Add to the whole ensemble a walking stick for balance, and what do I look like? A version of Alan Bennett’s ‘Lady in the Van’ I suppose, and happily invisible.

Invisibility

I remember becoming socially invisible in my 50s slightly wounded at the time, caught off-guard by my changed external self. I did feel the immediate relief of not being the object of the random male gaze. No more building site wolf-whistles (do men still do that?); a reduction (though not quite a disappearance) of competitiveness around other women; no more being speculated about or randomly touched up by men (the ‘accidental’ brushing past, the up & down looks and blatant stares). Then I had a moment of realisation in my early 60s that I didn’t need to keep lowering my eyes to the pavement as I walked: I could hold my head up and look straight ahead for the first time in my life, in no danger that men would be trying to catch my eye. Sixty years of looking down and keeping my body hidden. I now walk with better posture in my 70s than I have ever done.

Recently I have taken to wearing wellington boots in preference to other shoes in winter. Trainers and sandals in the summer. With wellies, there’s less chance of an ingrown toenail (why didn’t anyone warn me about those?) or worse still, a broken ankle. Also, old ladies in high heels seem a bit desperate to me - unless you happen to look like Helen Mirren.

Recognising myself

I do, occasionally, try hard. I wear make-up for some Zoom meetings. The screen, I notice, irons out some wrinkles – which is good unless you’re ever likely to meet me and find out how many decades have accrued since you saw me on Zoom. I have a girlfriend who always wears make-up and still comments on how I look, so I dress up when we meet up. A few weeks ago I wore a skirt for the first time in a couple of years. It was to give a talk I was nervous about and ex-work clothes gave me a veneer of competence that I didn’t actually feel. As ever, the trick seemed to work.

But mostly, as I get ready to meet up with a friend for a walk or for lunch, I couldn’t be happier to look slightly wild and windswept, and for her to look the same. That old poem about wearing purple as you get older (thank you Jenny Joseph) comes to mind. I do wear more purple – some in my hair, some in jumpers and scarves. I also wear more black, a kindly colour that slims and disappears me into obscurity.

When I look at young people’s way of dressing now, I have to say that I think the girls look a bit silly (sorry, Sisterhood) with too much make-up, too much hair, too few clothes. We were the same, except that our era was long straight hair, scant make-up, bell bottom jeans and flowers everywhere. I expect we too looked silly to the grown-ups.

I now look out for other men and women dressed like me – downbeat and somehow giving off an air that they’d rather be reading a book than looking in a clothes shop. We smile at each other. Not quite in the gutter yet but certainly looking up at the stars, and far less looking in the mirror.

On the other hand....

I’m going too far. Tomorrow I am having my hair cut and more purple will be dyed in. If I didn’t care what I looked like, why spend the money? Last week, a young woman (by which I mean a 50-year-old) said: ‘You look nice in that scarf, Chris’ and I inwardly preened myself like a 19 year old. That 19-year-old still lurks in the mirror, vain and anxious: a young woman with shoulder length brown hair, and a slim figure but no confidence. Could I somehow get back to her with this scarf, that skirt, those shoes? And if not, could I channel my inner Helen Mirren?

But mostly these days, the folly of self-regard doesn’t plague me and I am so glad of the freedom.