Style and Beauty Tips for the Challenged - and Who Isn't, in Some Way?

It has come to my attention that some of my readers would like to know what I’ve learned in my travels among French and other style writers. Yes, indeed, certain conversations I’ve had lately with women of about my age, some older, some younger, have clued me in. I tend to roll with a very natural group - Earth mothers and such - so I’ve been rather circumspect about my dabblings in the land of fashion and beauty. Ok, maybe not so circumspect. I’m blogging about it, after all. My point is, there’s been interest. Eager interest, even. So. There you go. I aim to please.

 So. What have I learned? Well, everyone has his or her angle on style and beauty, and the whole French style thing has some amusing little published arguments going on. French women don’t get fat – well, they do. They don’t exercise at gyms – well, they do. They don’t get facelifts – well, they actually get a lot of work, maybe not classic facelifts, but then again, with all the available alternatives to surgery, lots of women don’t get facelifts and still end up looking, well, you know.

What do they agree on? 

Style

·      Posture. Style, the consensus seems to be, depends on posture. Stand up straight. Dancers  and Pilates folk know the drill. Pretend there’s a string running through your spine up through the top of your head. You’re a marionette. Create space. Tilt your pelvis & tailbone forward slightly. And draw your shoulders down and away from your ears.

·      But if you need more than posture – and anyone who doesn’t live in the nudist colony I saw signs for on our trip to Quebec last year does - if you need clothes, then go for well-fitting garments of the best quality you can afford, in neutral colors for the main pieces. 

My first exposure to this theory of wardrobe came via the French teacher at my high school. I didn’t take French, but my friend did, and she reported on lessons on style as taught by Mme. She also reported rumors that Mme wore no underwear, but they were unverified. Images of Mme later blended with images of Sharon Stone in that infamous scene in that infamous movie she made. Forgot what it’s called.

·      Scarves and other accessories for color and pizzazz. Scarves are very popular among the French. And the Italians. Italian men wear scarves, too.

Our tour guide in Pompeii, Mario

Good old Tim Gunn in his tres drôll book, A Guide to Quality, Taste, and Style, told me to go through my clothes and get rid of stuff I don’t like, that doesn’t fit, that I don’t wear, and to identify the “soul-stirring” pieces I own. And then to wear them. Well, I don’t know about soul-stirring, but I do know about saving my favorite items for “someday.” I’m the queen of saving things for someday. Especially anything new. Only someday never comes, does it? And now I’m That Age. Fewer tomorrows ahead of me. So I’ve started wearing those saved things more often now.

Emboldened by the closet purge, I approached the owner of a boutique I really like and asked if she ever does style consultations. She said she does them all the time –for free. She said I can bring in a few of my things and show them to her and she can use them to make suggestions and so on. It turns out she’s just turned the golden age herself. And she looks fab – pixie cut, cute outfits, and best of all, a similar body shape to mine. I haven’t taken her up on her suggestion yet, because the boutique is a bit cher, as we French say. But I’m thinking about it.

·      Good haircut, good shoes.

Which morphs us into beauty.

Beauty

·      Good haircut being an essential here. My style writers devote much amusing print to creating “French” hair, which is, apparently, slightly scraggly, kind of dirty, and slept on. Thank God I’ve got that down. If I washed my hair every day, it would be so puffy you’d never see my face.

My good haircut is, however, in danger. My stylist, you see, has fallen out with his business partner, who happens to be his sister, and he has left his salon in a huff. I’ve followed him to a temporary place until he starts another one; but I’m worried.

·      Make-up of an enhancing rather than en-masking nature. This is apparently only possible once you’ve passed the teen years. Dramatic eyeliner is the style around these parts for the under 16 set. For those older than 30, it’s the unnaturally natural look, all the way.

Take it from me, a lot more women are wearing the unnaturally natural look than you think. I didn’t realize it, until I discovered Trish McEvoy. When we lived in NYC, I used to get my hair cut at Frederic Fekkai, which was upstairs at Bendel’s. One day, I strayed too close to one of the make-up counters, and before I knew it, a charming young fellow was working me over.

             “Listen,” I told him. “I’m from Boston. In Boston, women don’t wear make-up.”
             “Yes they do,” he said. “Half of them are wearing Trish.”

I left with a lovely kit of practically invisible stuff. I only needed about ten items for the natural look.

·      Facials and more. Here’s the sticking point for me. Apparently every female in France has an intimate relationship with a dermatologist-aesthetician and also, peut etre, with a pharmacist.  

Pharmacies in Italy, by the way, were nearly as fascinating as pharmacies in France apparently are. The 10^th grader and I experienced one when one of us, no need to mention which one, because she might be embarrassed, ran out of deodorant. The whole store was full of interesting bottles and tubes, and all the names and ingredients were in European, so we could barely understand half of them. I figured this meant they were automatically at least one standard deviation above the norm, quality-wise, compared to what we can find at home in CVS. We bought a deodorant, after resorting (on my part) to some ape-like gestures. Guess what? We love it. It smells great. And so, when we used it up, we went online, and were able to order some through that Hachette-murdering website (Amazon, for you unliterary types), for at least three times the price of drugstore deodorant.

·      Argan oil. I bought some at the local food co-op, so I know it’s pure, not laced with corn oil or little bits of titanium dioxide (see upsetting Mother Jones article). I’ve used it on my face, my neck, my, uh, sternum, and my scalp.

·      Retin-A. Really, this should go without saying. It’s one thing that actually works. And, oddly, insurance paid for it the last time I got a prescription!

Oh, the hours I’ve spent reading up on beauty treatments, cleansers, lotions, and other potions. It’s. Well, let’s just say I wish I could be paid for them all.

Other lessons I’ve absorbed for your edification, as well as mine, include the following.

·      Water. Drink it. A lot. First thing in the morning. I already do this. Check. I’m a thirsty gal. Half the time, I’m worried I have sudden onset diabetes. So far, no. BTW, years ago I read that Donna Karan does this, too. Drinks a glass of water first thing, that is. I don’t know about the hypochondria. I felt validated, for absolutely no reason, by this information. But I never forgot it.

This reminds me of the saddest thing I’ve learned. French women don’t drink much wine. They sip a little. But they’re not teetering around sozzled.  And they don’t do cocktails. Too many calories. Too drying to the skin. Which brings us to….

·      Moisturize. Again, I’m already on it. I have dry skin and a history of eczema, so I’ve been moisturizing for years.

I feel I must end this post with one of my favorite jokes. It pretty much sums up this whole style thing. Ready?

Q: Why are you sophisticated when you’re going to the bathroom?

A: ‘Cuz European.

Get it? Say it slowly. Break it down. “Eur-o-pe-an.” Get it?

Okay. Good. Have a good weekend!

Bibliography

Giuliano, Mereille. French Women Don't Get Facelifts & French Women Don't Get Fat.
Gunn, Tim. A Guide to Quality, Taste and Style.
Jett, Tish. Forever Chic.

Dress for Success

"What’s this focus on French chic?” The husband asked the other day. I was embarrassed he’d noticed. Although, really, how could he not have? Instead of reading our book club book for our upcoming meeting, I’d read three books on fashion and style. Plus, I'd been spending a lot of time reading style blogs by women over forty. 

How to articulate? The vision of a simple, elegant low-heeled shoe, the capstone (foundation stone?) of a simple, elegant outfit came to mind. Something dressier than, say, yoga pants and sneakers. I’ve had this vision since we were in the Rome airport. An older woman walked by, dressed a standard deviation or two above the norm for travel. We were surrounded by a large group of American college athletes, so you know what the dress code was. Sweats and jeans, leggings and sweats. This older woman was obviously not American. So maybe it’s not fair to compare. But I thought, I’m halfway between that – the schlumpy students – and that – the elegant older lady, and I want to be more like her when I grow up, than like the older version of these college kids.

But my interest predated that. Packing for the trip triggered a lot of thoughts about clothes and style. Some of it is certainly related to the ongoing trauma of turning fifty. It’s not like I want to start wearing couture. That’s boring and stuffy. But there is certainly an aspect of this interest that has to do with last ditch efforts before my face falls into my neck. As I told my sister the psychoanalyst, I’m not giving up without a fight.

And then a couple of women I know, about my age, returned to work, part time or full time, and that triggered thoughts, about my connection with the outside world of commerce and responsibility, about financial freedom, and about - for lack of a better word - “lifestyle.” I felt envious of these women. Their need to dress up a bit. Their need to exercise different parts of their brains and to have colleagues and eat at lunch trucks and wear shoes that click-clack when they walk. I found myself actually kind of yearning for that.

And I thought, well, am I sick of my book? Am I giving up on my book? Am I doing what I’ve usually done when I get sick of and despairing about my writing: focusing on something that seems easier, like getting a “real” job and earning some actual money?

Maybe the solution is to do both. The kids don’t need me in the same way. I can work while they are around. But I need to earn money. I want to. Not just for more, but to save for retirement and so on. I feel afraid of the future, for sure, and I want to do something about it. Also, I want the mental and social engagement with the world.  Sure, in my dreams, I’m traveling around giving readings and appearing on talk shows and so on, but let’s be real. The book has come along discouragingly slowly, and I’ve been playing the whole, I’ll wait until I get the proposal done and out before looking for work thing for a couple of years now. That's getting old.

Another thing this dressing and style thing-o reminds me of is that old saying to “dress for the job you want.” This worked for me right out of college, when I was a receptionist at a law firm. Quickly, the boss promoted me to paralegal. It turned out that neither of those jobs were jobs I wanted, but that’s another drumbeat. After that it was thrift-store finds, jeans, t-shirts, and pretty soon I was doing data entry, writing novels, and eventually, unemployed. In short, it worked.  Anyhoo, now I’m feeling like being more part of the world, and so I’m dressing for that and hoping to create opportunities.

While I felt called out by the husband, it was only because I felt some shame. All this focus on appearance felt important, but also really, really shallow. Really, it's both symbolic and literal. Part of the interest is about upgrading my wardrobe; however, part of my style obsession definitely has to do with shoring myself up from the outside, since I’ve been feeling discouraged inside. One of the themes of these books is that building a good façade helps us feel good inside. Taking time to care for self, health, diet, skin, and wardrobe cultivates feeling “bien dans votre peau” or something – happy in your own skin, roughly translated. If I can build confidence in one area, it bleeds into other areas, too. So.

That’s what’s with the focus on French chic.

Italy

I’m baa—aacckk, Readers! I survived our family trip in celebration of my 50^th birthday. Are you

surprised? I am, a little – though not really. I mean, we went to Italy, not Mars. We took a route well-traveled. Not that you’d have known that from my mental state before we left, which was a sad manifestation of my provinciality.

Anyway. I wanted to write a post before we left, and I did write one, but I decided not to publish it on the outside chance that someone reading it would then realize we were out of the country and that our house was standing empty. Leaving our stash of gold bullion and Faberge eggs available for poaching, of course. Not that I suspect any of my loyal readers of criminal impulses. You just never know who might have come across my blog in the wild west of the Interwebs.

So here’s what I wrote April 4, the day before we left:

There’s a little bird, a chickadee I think, building a nest in our side portico. On top of an upside down broom, actually. Right now the nest looks like a small pile of leaves, but I watched this birdie put a piece of leaf there, definitely with a purpose. I’m amazed that an upside down broom leaning in a corner seems sturdy enough for a nest. If that bird had any idea we have a dog, or how loud the storm door bangs, the bird would nest elsewhere. But the coast is clear today. The dog is in the kennel. And we are preparing to leave for two weeks. Is this a good or bad thing for the bird?

It’s the day before departure. The dining room table is covered with supplies. Most of a medical nature. Things, as a friend put it, that you might need at two in the morning in a hotel. Which is a lot, potentially. Especially when you’re me, I guess. Ibuprofen, acetaminophen for adults and children, Benadryl ditto, various stomach aids like Tums, Peptol Bismol, and Imodium. Yes, I am prepared as if we were going to a third world country. I really am, since I followed the list my friend wrote up when her son did travel to a third world country. Even then, he didn’t need anything in the emergency kit.

Look, I haven’t been to Europe in a long time. I’m in a dither. Yesterday, I realized that all of the shirts I was planning to wear require hanging to dry, which would make it hard to toss them in the hotel laundry or in a laundromat. So I had to make an emergency run to buy some t-shirts. I had this idea that I could look vaguely stylish as a tourist in Italy, stylish enough to not look like an American tourist in Italy. Except that I’d be traveling in a band of three obviously American tourists. In my fantasy, I guess I would appear as their tour guide, perhaps? But who am I kidding? It’s interesting that I’ve become focused on looking good at just the time of my life when things are starting to fall apart, physically. “Interesting” here substitutes for pitiful, inevitable, ironic, and of course, time consuming. Take my eyebrows. Please. Where did all these crazed curly eyebrow hairs come from? Crikey! And to have it happen now, when my daughters are reaching puberty. While they are flowering, I am decaying.

So I will wear my wash and dry t-shirts with my travel pants and my comfortable shoes that aren’t sneakers but still scream “tourist!” and take my wild eyebrows and all my medications and somehow manage to cross the Atlantic.

None of this has anything to do with success. Unless you consider that I’ve survived turning fifty and have been able to start reading the guide book and planning restaurant meals and stuff I couldn’t bring myself to do for weeks and weeks because of sheer – I don’t know what - sheer terror, maybe – as success.

*                                                *                                                *

So. With my sister the psychoanalyst’s wish – “May all your glitches be minor” -packed in my luggage, we arrived in Rome. I’ll spare you the travelogue and the pasta and gelato rhapsodies, except to say that with the help of a couple of friends’ recommendations, as well as the travel agent’s and the guidebook, we ate great. We spent a mostly fun two weeks, and made much of my aunt’s admonition to “watch the cobblestones and don’t break an ankle.” She was right, there were a lot of cobblestones. At least once a day one or another of us said, “Careful, don’t break an ankle.” Sometimes, for variety, one of us said, “That was close! I almost broke an ankle.” But nobody did, thank goodness.

Did I mention that the 6^th grader woke up with a sore throat the day we left on our trip? That’s right. Glitch. But it was minor. She did have a cold almost the entire trip. Fortunately, I had medication (see above). For her, I mean, as well as for me. Also, one of her loose teeth broke. But it didn’t hurt, so that was minor. And her ankle hurt intermittently. But she didn’t break it. The tenth grader had a sinking spell in the Uffizi and I had a moment of panic that she was going to be sick amongst the great works of art. But it passed.

Italy. Getting there had seemed impossible. Having made it, I spent several moments trying to really feel that I was actually, finally, at last there. Really feeling present in that place turned out to be just as hard as it can be to feel present in any place. I sat on a stone ledge at the farmhouse where we stayed in Lazio near Umbria and looked out at the definitely Italian landscape: olive trees in meadows of undulating grass and yellow and red wildflowers running down and up hillsides with Fifteenth Century churches in the distance and had to say it aloud to the husband to make it feel real. “We are in Italy.” It only sort of worked.

Too soon we were returning to the states, and the last bit of Italy I saw was the gesticulating conversation of the four Italians sitting in front of us on the plane heading to New York. Now it’s been just a few days since we returned, and Italy feels as far away as it did before.

We arrived home to discover that the tenth grader had left her lovey Bunny at the airport hotel. So that’s a glitch. We have been in touch with them, and they claim to have it, and to be willing to send it, but we are still waiting for the final word on how much it will cost us. I hope it won’t be anywhere near as much as it cost us to do our laundry in the hotel in Rome.

I feel it’s important to note, regarding my concern about looking American, that towards the end of our vacation, I stopped in a bar – that’s a snack bar, coffee shop, and bar rolled into one – to use the, erm, facilities, and on my way out, one of the customers said to me, “Deutsche?”  So while I looked like a tourist, at least I looked like a European one. 

Success!

Something that made me happy to be back home was that the bird’s nest that was under construction when we left was fully formed when we returned. And, according to the husband, who is tall enough to see into it, there were four eggs. But where was the bird? I worried all Sunday and Monday that we had scared away the bird, that our return had rendered what had seemed a quiet corner, a loud, threatening place. Then I thought, This is a critter that built its home on top of a broom leaning in a corner. How much security does it need? Less than I, apparently. And then, Tuesday, I stood on tiptoe and nosed up to the opening of the nest – and met a little black eye. The bird mamma was in there, sitting on her eggs! This made me so happy, Readers, really. Ridiculously so.