More of that later. But doesn't that sound like the opening to a poem? You know the kind I mean. A lament on the changes that middle age ushers in. Something along the lines of Jenny Joseph's Warning*, or Nora Ephron's conversational essay I Feel Bad About My Neck. It seems when women reach an interesting age, they revel in sharing their continuing insecurities whilst making it clear they hold no truck in what lesser mortals think. Jenny Joseph's protagonist warns everyone to expect disruptive and socially unacceptable behaviour from her in the years to come. Meanwhile Ephron counsels younger women to appreciate their youth in ways of which they cannot conceive until that youth has passed.
I've just read Caitlin Moran's cheerful polemic, More Than a Woman. In it, she coins the phrase 'hagdom.' It's a wholly positive description, describing the point when women glory in their lack of arsedness. When comfy shoes and a baggy jumper piss over tottering in tailored clothes with no stretch. Likewise, journalist Sam Baker has a podcast called The Shift. Each week I listen to her interview a woman about middle age, the menopause and getting older in today's society. The final question to all her guests is the succinct, 'How many fucks do you give?' The answers range in detail, but they can be collectively summarised as 'not as many as I once did.'
Now back to my hat. Do I suit hats? I don't think so. Is that a problem? Nahhh.
I've come to the realisation that if I like a hat, and it will provide the dual service of keeping my hair dry and my head warm, then it's already earning its keep. How it looks is irrelevant. These are wise words of course, but not necessarily the first to spring to mind. How it looks is nestled in there somewhere. Lower than it once was, perhaps, but still there. But first, let's look at the evidence in question. Here is my hat...
Now let's assess. (And when I say 'Let's' I do not mean let us. I mean let me. I will assess. No help needed, thanks.) When I took that photo I liked my hat. It had just arrived and the fact it fitted my massive head had been instantly pleasing. I selfied up and felt secure about my wardrobe choices. Of course within minutes, there were doubts. From the depths of my brain came an image from my parent's record collection. Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits came floating up from my subconscious. A quick search later and I understood why. See...
Obviously what I'd done was create a homage to both Simon AND Garfunkel in my sartorial choices that day. I shared these thoughts in real time on the family WhatsApp where my mum told me I also looked like Donovan. More searching followed. I decided to assume she meant Donovan from his youth rather than his look now, although who's to say. Anyway, those were the thoughts I had upon my hat arriving. 1. I like it. This looks nice. Followed by 2. I look like a 1970s male folk duo, or a 1960s male pop star. As someone not completely comfortable displaying overt femininity, I accepted this. And let's face it, The Boxer is a really great song. Everything was fine. I still liked my hat. More or less.
Several weeks on from the start of hat ownership and I've worn it twice. Once for a solo walk and once to Sainsburys when I hadn't washed my hair. This isn't enough. And yet there are too many times when I'm about to put it on, when I have doubts. On a particularly PMT-ridden day last week, I could not get the image of George R.R. Martin out of my head. (I imagine he has felt similarly about me.) I need to get over this. I need to reconnect with my first thought when it arrived. I like it. This looks nice.
In many ways I'm at the interesting age I described earlier. I am more than ready to embrace hagdom. I've worn trainers or trainers-lite every day** for the past three years. My outfit is formal when it contains an alternative to PJ bottoms and no food stains from the previous evening. If I were being honest, I'd say I probably hit hagdom some time ago. Yet if Sam Baker were to ask me how many fucks I give, I'd remember my hat and have to accept it's a number higher than zero. Maybe I'm really channelling Jenny Joseph in all of this. Maybe I'm warning everyone that I see a future involving hats and I'm breaking the world in gently. Or maybe I'm going down the Nora Ephron route. I'm highlighting my insecurities to get them in the open. Then I can crack on being a hat-wearer without them interfering. Who knows? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
I think for now, whenever I toy with wearing it and start to think I might not bother, I'll conjure up the spirit of those that have gone before. Hat wearers of the past that broke down barriers and led the way. Whenever I feel insecure niggles in the future, I'll remember nineties teen hit, Blossom, and all my fears will be allayed. It's the only way.
Have a lovely week, folks.
*You know this one. You'll have read it before. It opens with When I am an old woman I shall wear purple. I read it at school, but it was also recited by an ex-boss of mine at her retirement do. It's a cracker and very much the vibe I'm moving towards.
*Two exceptions spring to mind. 1. My brother's wedding which involved red sandals with a low block heel. 2. The Pharmacy Christmas do, where my shoe of choice was a patent leather brogue. I swanned around like I was Katherine Hepburn, relishing every single second my legs didn't ache. A Christmas do where I didn't need codeine for backache the following day? Novel.
No comments:
Post a Comment