Redefining Style: Why Helen Mirren is an Inspiration

GUEST COLUMN

Catherine Ford
Writer. Author. Commentator.

She wore a pale lavender, form-fitting gown with hair to match. In doing so on the red carpet at Cannes, 77-year-old Helen Mirren wiped away "old" from her onlookers vocabulary and in doing so, erased it from mine.

At that moment, cameras clicking around her, the actress transcended age and told the world she was ageless. I am taking the hint, albeit with maybe some baby steps. (Pun unintentional.)

First action: getting rid of the purple glitter nail polish Exchange  it for something less out of dates, albeit the choice ended up Barbie or princess pink, but at least it's soft and flattering and there's no glitter. (Even though I loved the glitter.)

All this brings me to the sad fact of life: I'm stuck in a rut that ages me.

I have closets crammed with St John knits which I'll never wear again. The reason is simple: I'm not dressing to go into an office or downtown for lunch or swanning about with the glitterati. (Well, maybe that last one was an exaggeration.) But I'm not "dressing up" for a night on the town. Floor-to-ceiling shelves hold shoes and boots gathering dust. Did I really wear those four-inch stilettos without pain, even when standing for hours in front of a university class? The answer is, of course, yes. And I'd still like to take them out for a spin around the block except I'm not sure of my own steadiness right now. Blame the pandemic lockdown and the fact I haven't worn anything but sneakers or sandals —  and the occasional wedge —  for the past two years.

Don't even ask about the collection of hatboxes sitting on top of the shelves. The only hat that has seen the light of day in the past couple of decades is the black felt Smithbilt cowboy hat that's as ageless as is the Calgary Stampede. It's the one hat I could wear in Calgary without being laughed out of the nearest bar. Alas, I love hats, but no one  wears them any more if they aren’t going to a garden party at Buckingham Palace or a wedding in England.

Maybe if Helen Mirren wore a hat it would revive the fashion.

 As Lisa Armstrong wrote for the London Daily Telegraph about Mirren: she’s “not someone who’s trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, in the way women over a certain age were once expected to be . . . the image Mirren projects  . . . is one of pure joy. Mirren’s not overdoing the vamp factor, but she’s hardly underpaying it either She’s not trying to look 10, 20 or 30 years younger than she is. She just wants to look great.”  

Me, too, Helen; me, too.

So, thusly emboldened by one of my generation’s great actors — she’s two years younger than me —  I stand inside my walk-in closet and try to figure out what my look should be for my age.  (Inside my head I think, exactly what is that?) What should I part with?

There are the outfits one never gives away. You know, the wedding dress and matching ivory coat and the Thai silk electric blue suit with shoes, hat and purse to match. Realistically, I’d be laughed out of the room should I ever appear in public so attired. (And my late first husband would be convulsed with laughter if he could see that.  Well, maybe he’d be kind and not laugh out loud.) Still, why keep the outfits when the love and sentiment is still alive in my memory if not on my back? I’m not sure my current husband of 27 years would even notice if I wore my wedding outfit. 

As an aside, consider my theory that the men in our lives take a mental snapshot of the women they love when we meet them, or when they fall in love, and that’s the image they see.  One of these days I predict someone’s husband will wake up in the morning, turn over and ask, in stunned amazement: “Who in hell are you?” Well, that’s my theory, based on the fact that if you want an honest opinion on what you’re wearing and whether it’s in fashion, ask any of your gay friends, or your closest girlfriend/confidant.  I’m lucky to have the latter, which is why I’m contemplating upping my style quotient.

This is the same girlfriend/confidant who urged me to consider not colouring my hair, which I had been addicted to since I was in my early 20’s. She used words such as “brassy” to describe my blonde locks, which was the kiss of death. Over the course of the pandemic and with the help of an understanding and talented stylist, I let my hair grow back naturally. I discovered I’m going gray exactly like my late grandfather and father: white at the temples and just a sprinkling of gray in the rest.

So maybe that was the first step on the road to being ageless, not the nail polish.

Now I stand in the walk-in closet and am bewildered at the excess.

Why are my closets crammed with memories but little else that I actually wear? I don’t really know, other than I would never toss out an outfit that retailed for a lot of money. I’ve already been through the alteration stage, when many of the outfits I loved ended up too big for me.

But seriously, how many pairs of black trousers bearing labels like Eileen Fisher and Theory and St. John does one woman need, although that may be a loaded word. No one “needs” expensive clothing, although only the young can pull off the fast fashion of the moment. Still, I need to bite the bullet and let much of my closet go, let someone else revel in her “find” at the thrift store. I know the love of the chase when one finds the diamond in the rough. (So to speak.)

But back to the task at hand: What to do with a closet full of outfits that are merely gathering dust?

How do I elicit, unasked for, the “wow” comment made by my husband when he saw the picture of Helen Mirren?

Walk into the closet and start culling.

Embrace ageless, not aged.

Copyright: Catherine Ford 2023