At 63, I Realised I'd Spent Ten Years Dressing to Disappear

Beige cardigans, blouses that never sat right, and the day my granddaughter asked me a question I couldn't answer.

I should say from the start that I'm not a writer, and I'm certainly not a fashion person. I'm a retired school librarian. I garden, I walk our kelpie Biscuit around the block twice a day, and my husband Peter will tell you I've had the same haircut since 1994.

But something happened this year that I haven't been able to stop thinking about, so here it is.

My granddaughter Isla, who is fifteen and honest in the way only fifteen-year-olds are, was helping me clear out the wardrobe before winter. She pulled out one top, then another, then another, and finally turned around and said: "Nan, when did you stop wearing colours?"

I didn't have an answer. I looked at the rail — black, navy, charcoal, oatmeal, beige, and one grey cardigan I somehow own in three slightly different greys — and I couldn't remember.

How it happens

Nobody wakes up and decides to dress in beige. It creeps up on you.

A blouse starts clinging in places it didn't used to, so you buy the next one a size up. The bigger one looks like a sack, so you choose a darker colour to hide it. The hem rides up every time you reach for the top shelf, so you spend the day tugging it down. And somewhere in there, the shops start quietly steering you to the "comfortable" rack — shapeless, dark, sensible.

I didn't choose to disappear. I just stopped choosing, and disappearing was what was left.

What I had wrong

For years I told myself that prints and bright colours were for younger women. That at my age, the dignified choice was plain and dark.

It took me far too long to see that the problem was never the colour. It was the cut. A top that's too short or too tight looks wrong in any colour — including navy. A top that falls properly, longer over the hip, relaxed through the body, with a neckline that opens up the face, looks right in nearly anything. Even a bold print.

The blouse

My daughter Kate was the one who sent me the link to Ruby Vaughan's long blouses. I think she'd been waiting for an excuse.

I chose a green printed one, mostly because it was the least "me" thing on the page. When it arrived, what struck me wasn't the colour at all. It was that I didn't have to think about it.

It's cut long, so it sits over the hips. Nothing to tuck in, nothing to pull down. The fit is loose and flowing without being baggy — it moves when you move and then settles back. The V-neck is flattering without being low, and the long sleeves suit Sydney mornings and over-air-conditioned shopping centres.

What happened next

I wore it to the shops with my old jeans. The woman at the bakery, who has served me every Saturday for eleven years, said, "Oh, that's lovely on you." I nearly dropped the sourdough.

I wore it to Kate's for Sunday lunch with black trousers, and Peter — who does not notice clothes — asked if it was new. I wore it to dinner with a pair of earrings I'd forgotten I owned.

Same blouse, three completely different days, and not once did I catch myself adjusting it. By the end of the month I'd ordered a blue one and a softer grey print. Isla approved of both.

How I wear mine

Everyday: slim jeans or leggings and flat sandals.
Lunch or church: wide-leg trousers, a necklace and a small bag.
Cooler days: one of my many grey cardigans, left open so the print still shows.

My wardrobe isn't a rainbow now — I still love my navy trousers. But when I open the door in the morning, there's colour looking back at me again. And for the first time in a long while, getting dressed is the easy part of the day.

Margaret