What Not to Dare

Is Madonna too old to wear rabbit ears? Am I?

By Kathryn Robinson

Mind you, I don’t dress ironically, at least not intentionally. But what are my options? I asked myself on a recent fall shopping foray, wandering rudderless through the streets of downtown. Am I now the official property of Eileen Fisher? Ready for the “I’m a hip grandma!” packagings of Coldwater Creek and Chico’s; the stalwart Daughters of the American Revolution tailoring of Talbots? Could I even enter H&M?

I sought sanctuary at the Euro-chic boutique Baby and Co., whose buyer, Jill Donnelly, embodies both style and maturity. “You do have to work a little harder as you get older to make yourself look fabulous,” she sympathized. Many women suffer from what she terms “the disconnect”—when personal style doesn’t reconcile with their age. But at the other extreme are the women who embrace the gifts of maturity. Charm. Wit. Manners. “A knowingness,” Donnelly called it.

I thought of my mother, as classy a woman as ever elevated a cocktail party sheath, whose style seemed to spring intrinsically from her identity. Her identity—not her age. A couple years before she died Mom confided how startling it was to look in the mirror and see a 70-year-old face looking back. “Because honestly,” she marveled, “the woman inside me is 20.”

From out of nowhere I wondered how I would dress if I didn’t know how old I was. Donnelly couldn’t have been more dead-on about knowingness. The point of dressing isn’t to reflect your age. It’s to reflect your soul.

From where I stood on Fifth Avenue I could look through the shop windows of Betsey Johnson, where I saw fleets of young shoppers eagerly hauling armfuls of silk chiffon and crepe—back satin minidresses in and out of the fitting rooms. How exhausting it was back in the days when I labored that hard to dress for success, or—like these hotties—for conquest. It may be true that it gets harder to look good with age, but dressing for my unformed younger self took far more effort.

My focus shifted and I saw myself reflected in the shop window. I recognize that woman, I thought. Now more than ever in my life—and owing directly to my… maturity—I know who I am.

I am a middle-aged woman in pigtails.