A few days ago I bumped into an old friend I hadn’t seen in a very long while: a very pretty woman who, if memory serves me well, used to have a few wrinkles. Now, they have been replaced by a smooth and rosy complexion. I have to admit: she looked great.
I read, aghast, in an interview with Elle MacPherson, that the supermodel once nicknamed The Body, will not dream of wearing a bikini anymore, now that she has reached 50. Elle MacPherson? The same Elle MacPherson who still looks glorious and gloriously unretouched? I was taken aback and, for a long moment, I wondered whether it was time I re-thought my bikini policy.
I went to a lecture a couple of days ago, held by three doctors, all female, all professionals with their own practices and/or research laboratories. It certainly wasn’t a frivolous occasion and I noticed that all of them, women in their early to late 40s, wore either a skirt or a dress and high heels. One of them, in particular, sported a lovely periwinkle sleeveless dress, cinched at the waist, with a wide skirt and golden sandals. Not your typical work attire.
A few weeks ago we were contacted by an online retailer asking if we wished to participate in their LBD Valentine Mood Board. All we had to do was pick one, or more, of their offerings and accessorize it the way we saw fit. After a brief correspondence from the plumpness of our beds (sofa girl just waking up in Cape Town and me already buried under the covers in LA), we decided I would take this one.
“Not sure there is anything for us” she ventured.
“Mmm, the pleated one is nice.” It was: right length (under the knee); right material (a wavy organza that probably swayed nicely as one moved) but one drawback – sleeveless. Not good if you are conscious of your chicken wings.
Everything else was too short, too revealing, too tight. And, frankly, too black.
“What are you doing?” my mother hisses under her breath, huffing and puffing, trying to keep up with my confident stride as I step inside the Dior flagship store on Rodeo Drive. She is probably thinking I can’t even afford a pair of knickers in there.
“There is something I would like to try on.”
There is only one person I know who has more passion for English history than me, and that is sofa brother. We both devour books and tv shows, especially on Tudor and Elizabethan times, with a voraciousness that sofa girl finds disturbing. She, on the other hand, couldn’t care less who killed who and what bizarre relations exist within royal lineages.
Those (five) of you who have been following this blog from day one might remember it all started with a rant on Full Hollywood waxes, wondering in the name of what should a woman submit herself to such torture. Well, ladies, the good news is that the all nude wax is on the way out, as attested by beauticians on both coasts, who have seen that particular business diminish by as much as 70%. We might have celebrities like Gwyneth Paltrow and Cameron Diaz who spoke out in favor of a more natural look to thank for but I would like to think women are coming to their senses.
The older I get, the more many of my romanticized beliefs seem to fall over the wayside, so I am not sure I could ever believe in fate. But I love the concept of synchronicity, of things falling into spectacular and unexpected order, when we least expect it.
Take heart, I am not aiming for any grand philosophical matters today, I just want to bring up haute couture. The Paris fashion shows came to a close last week and the fashion wagon has moved on to its next chaos-filled destination – those, like me, who do not have any affiliation with the fashion industry are left dreaming (or criticizing) over catwalk shots beaming from Vogue’s website.