Both of my grandmothers always looked old to me. In truth they were only in their sixties when I first remember them but they seemed ancient with their nonchalance about appearances. I sometimes wonder of they were more comfortable with aging than most of us are today. They allowed all of the signs of growing old shine forth without any attempts to mask them with makeup or hair dye or injections of botox. They accepted that they were in the last phase of life with great dignity and little worry about how they might appear to the world.
Both ladies mostly wore cotton dresses that were fitted at the waist revealing any bulges of extra weight that they might have had. The frocks were comfortable but without much style. The cloth was often patterned with flowers or plaids that did little to differentiate them from a thousand other older women. They were strictly utilitarian and often a bit faded and frayed after much use. Their closets generally held just enough dresses to get them from one wash day to the next.
My grandmother Minnie Bell worked on a farm so her wardrobe also included overalls and work shirts which she donned to labor in the fields of vegetables that she tended. She nonetheless always changed back into one of her dresses once the outdoor work was done. She dressed as though she had been assigned a set of uniforms to wear each day of the week depending on what duties she was performing. Her shoes were sensible and comfortable. After all she would work in them from before sunrise to late in the night.
My Grandma Ulrich rarely wore shoes. Instead she padded around her home in her bare feet unless it was a cold day in winter. Then she donned slippers lined with soft fabric to keep warm. I don’t think I ever once saw her wearing a regular pair of shoes. I’m not even sure that she owned a pair.
Neither of my grandmothers wore makeup or spent much time styling their hair. One let her hair grow long so that she might braid it and allow it to trail down her back. The other grandmother kept her hair cut short and curled into a wavy bob. In my youth it seemed to me as though there was a kind of official agreement among women over sixty to spend little time primping and fussing over appearance. They enjoyed a kind of mutually agreed upon comfort that allowed them to focus on other things than the wrinkles on their faces or the widening of their waists. They let their graying hair be a kind of badge of glory that spoke of their wisdom and joy in being themselves.
I always thought that both of my grandmothers were beautiful. I did not expect them to look younger than they actually were or to be fashion icons emulating current trends. They left styling to the younger generation and focused outwardly toward the people in their lives. Their daily routines were designed to make everyone around them feel safe, satisfied and loved. If they worried about their physical appearance they never gave any indication of their concerns. They reveled in being mature versions of themselves, sweet matriarchs striving to demonstrate how much their families meant to them.
In today’s world there is so much pressure on women to continue looking as young as possible even as they age. Our society has an obsession with youthfulness that is so influential that even young girls take note of a stray gray hair or a tiny crease in the skin around the eyes. Women spend time slathering themselves with creams and and skin products designed to imitate the youthful glow of a teenager. They fuss over their clothes and shoes hoping to present an image of being eternally young. It is an exhausting and time consuming process that begins with peer pressure on teens and never seems to abate until they revolt and choose clothing and shoes for comfort rather than style.
I suppose that there is no reason to appear dowdy or older than we actually are. Nonetheless there is an argument to be made that we should consider how much time and money it is taking to keep ourselves looking as young as possible. We might ask ourselves when it will be okay to simply relax like my grandmothers did. There should come a time when we just allow our inner beauty to be what people see instead of supporting the billion dollar businesses convincing us that it is important to improve ourselves with their products. I know that I am probably just as guilty of this as anyone else who attempts to artificially cover the signs of aging.
The times of isolation during the pandemic were often difficult, but also freeing. I became like my grandmothers in so many ways. I had a repertoire of seven different iterations of jeans and t-shirts that I combined and repeated day after day. I let my hair grow and removed the polish on my fingers and toes. Like Grandma Ulrich I mostly operated in my bare feet and when I needed shoes my go to choice was usually to wear slippers. I washed and moisturized my face but let dust cover the cosmetics that I had always used to paint rosy cheeks on my face. I was comfortable and happy and more in tune with the rhythm of the world. All of the superficialities melted away because I did not need them. It was a gloriously liberating time that now allows me to feel comfortable being my natural self on most days. I only go into full fashion mode for special occasions now.
A friend recently spoke of how wonderful it is to grow old gracefully. It is extraordinary when we can look at ourselves in the mirror with nothing more that what nature has given us and feel content with what we see. Reaching that point frees us to look outward and discover that the best feelings come from spending most of our time embracing and comforting others. There is so much joy in seeing the world without efforts to change or conform to artificial pressures. Our grandmothers seemed to know that. Perhaps we should follow their example. After all when we remember them we see that they really were beautiful.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 