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Why older folks look the way they do

By Gloria Diaz

Check out Gloria's Blog — Edge of Gloria!

Fort Wayne Reader

2011-08-21

I’ve always wondered about elderly people and the outrageous clothing combinations they come up with. You wonder if the men are colorblind (which isn’t limited to age) and don’t have any female companions to ask for fashion help. The women sometimes get a little too heavy-handed with the makeup. It’s fascinating to see swimming pool blue eye shadow in sharp contrast to deeply tanned (and wrinkled skin). Add to that a little too much mascara and sometimes I have to tell myself “don’t laugh” when helping customers that look a little too much like The Joker from Batman.

We all have our quirks I guess. As a teen, I wouldn’t dare leave the house without full makeup, no matter where I was going. I remember once going to a function at the Embassy and going full bore with the makeup and hair, and thinking I looked nice, and not getting any compliments at all. In contrast, I was in traffic one day, no makeup, and someone was “very interested” in me. It was a true WTF? moment, making me wonder why I bothered for years with grooming when it obviously didn’t matter.

That was the younger me. And I’m here to tell you that you’ll eventually get to the age where you don’t give a shit. You too will wear track suits out in public, and sweats under the guise that you will eventually go to the gym later. Sometimes you will, but trust me, most of the time you won’t.

I’ve started wearing makeup to work, only because about a year ago I was moved to a department where I would sweat a little less and interact with more people. So as not to scare the clientele, I decided to gussy up a bit. But some days, I don’t bother. I never know if I’m going to be writhing on someone’s kitchen floor, hooking up a refrigerator or a range, or moving a 240 pound front-loading washer down a flight of stairs. Makeup costs too much to be sweating it off.

And my hair is a topic I’ve written about before. After a stint of it being short, I’m growing it out again, and learning to go with the flow. It’s at an in-between stage where it’s just not long enough but I don’t want it short, unless I get a Mohawk. So far, I’ve been hit twice by customers at work, and my intention when it comes to appearances at my day job is positively bi-polar: either no makeup at all, or hair teased into a fright wig and lots of black eye shadow. Perhaps some temporary tattoos of the word “psycho” might keep the more aggressive consumers at bay.

It’s not that I don’t like makeup. On the contrary, going down a makeup aisle (or worse, a trip to Ulta) triggers something scary. It’s like a part of my brain is saying, “Must. Buy. Makeup.” I know this even though no foundation will make me look 20 again. That doesn’t stop me from looking for bargains or scarfing up more eye shadow than I can possibly use in six months’ time. I DO make an effort to do my hair and makeup sometimes, but more and more, I’m realizing that when I do things, I have to do them for me. So if I don’t want to wear makeup or do my hair, I don’t. In a way, it’s liberating and less stressful than my teen years, but at the same time, I feel guilty. Like I’m slacking or something. I know how to dress for certain places and certain events, but I can see where the lack of effort creeps in. I wonder what I’ll be like as an elderly woman. Will I look like a Latin Barbara Cartland? Will I age gracefully and use just the right amount of makeup? Or will I care at all?

Any young whippersnappers who think they can screw with me might be confronted with a woman with a Mohawk (probably gray, unless I decide to go with Old Lady Blue hair coloring) wearing black eye shadow (which might look really freaky with crow’s feet). I may even get a temporary tattoo which will read, “Age and treachery will overcome youth and skill.” My orthopedic combat boots will allow for comfort plus sturdy stomping ability, and my velour track suit will keep me cozy and comfy.
But that time is a little ways off. Hopefully, by then, I’ll have made enough money to afford plastic surgery and end up looking 40 when I’m 60.

Hopefully, my two velour track suits will still fit me. We can only hope.