‘I want to try your hairband!’ The band in question was black and orange with large embroidered flowers. A bit too millennial for a 40-something like me, but the person asking for it was even older — my 78-year-old grandmother.
Nani has always displayed a keen interest in the sartorial side of things. Her grey hair is akin to the Yeti — speculated on but with no documented proof of its existence. Often teased about her salon visits, Nani isn’t the least bit apologetic. I still remember eavesdropping when she was sitting with some equally ancient cousins. During a morbid discussion about so many of their friends passing away, she sighed, ‘Sometimes I do worry about it.’ Her cousin attempted to console her, ‘Apa don’t say all this, God willing, nothing will happen to you.’ Nani snorted, ‘Ghaderi, I am not talking about myself! I worry about my hairdresser. If she dies before me, then to find someone new and train properly would be a very big problem!’
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I am still not certain if this was just graveyard humour or she was being dead serious.
That afternoon, after divesting me of my hairband, she asked if I would drop her off to the nail spa. ‘I can’t go to the Jamatkhana like this in the evening!’ she said, showing me a chipped nail as she slowly walked to her bedroom to get ready.
Fifteen minutes passed and getting impatient, I was about to call out to her, when I recalled an article I had read the previous week about an ageing suit invented by the MIT Age Lab called Agnes. Slip the suit on, and within minutes you experience what it’s like to inhabit a 70-year-old’s body. The suit has elastic bands running from hip to knee to reduce mobility. There are cords that restrict the wrist and the elbows, a strap that pulls at the neck to mimic a degenerating spine and even earplugs to mimic diminished hearing. Once zipped in, simple things like reaching for a cup or opening a door become extremely challenging.
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The suit is supposed to make wearers feel a sense of empathy for the elderly and on that account, it is clearly a success. Even thinking about it made me feel more sympathetic towards my grandmother’s habit of taking eons to gather her things together. Unfortunately, it also made me a tad despondent.
Holding onto the hypothesis that misery, unlike joy, diminishes when it’s spread, I called my sister and filled her in. ‘You realise this is the best we are ever going to be? It’s all rapidly downhill from here, sister. Along with popping pills for diabetes and blood pressure, we may as well pop some mind-altering chemicals in our sunset years. At least that’s my new plan. Ecstasy and psychedelic knitting patterns may be all the excitement we can hope for in our dotage.’
She sighed, ‘You are being very negative as usual! There are many things to look forward to, not just stupid drugs. Have you seen the new Iris Apfel t-shirts? I am going to send you one! I think she is so inspiring! You know she has just signed on with IMG, the same modelling agency that handles Bella Hadid!’
Unwilling to get distracted by the worldly pleasures of retail therapy, I informed her that I had no interest in having a perky 20-year-old model emblazoned across my decidedly less-than-perky breasts.
My sister replied, ‘Yes, she is a model but she is not 20, she is 97.’
I quickly looked her up. Iris Apfel has cropped white hair, sports a kaleidoscope of colours, numerous pieces of statement jewellery, feathers, fur and distinctive porthole-style glasses. She has written a book, been the subject of a documentary, and even has a Barbie doll in her likeness. Google Bhaisaab also informed me that not only has she been the face of Kate Spade and Mac, but is the international counterpart to our 33-year-old Sonam Kapoor, as the face of Magnum ice-cream.
We inhabit such an ageist world that during promotions for a brand, when I jested that I had a new career now as a middle-aged model, my manager was summoned and instructed by the brand that I refrain from using such terms. Iris, on the other hand, who often refers to herself as a geriatric starlet, is beating both age and ageism like they are two eggs and she an electric whisk, creating a creme brulee both decadent and heart-warming.
Nani finally emerged from her room in an all-black ensemble, my hairband now firmly on her head, nude lipstick defining her lips and clutching an orange handbag. ‘See I found a matching bag,’ she said, and went on to berate me over the fact that, unlike her, I seldom change handbags. ‘How does it matter Nani,’ I said and quick came the retort, ‘Then you should just carry your things in a polyethene bag, why bother with a purse.’
To get her off my back, I hurriedly changed the topic to my new discovery, Iris Apfel. She was impressed right away — as much by the fact that Iris had managed to reach her 90s as her stratospheric career and irreverent style.
‘You know Nani, one of the things she said reminded me of you. “You start falling apart, but you just have to buck up and paste yourself together. Getting old is not for sissies!”’
My grandmother nodded, ‘Correct thing she is saying. When everything is falling apart, what is still in your hands, you must always keep tip top.’ I pulled up in front of the nail spa, ‘Bye Nani, hope all the hot buddhas at the Jamat this evening are bowled over by your ‘tip-top’ good looks.’ In return, she gave me a withering stare before carefully getting out of the car.
As the sand-filled hourglass called age starts running out, some find a way to hang on by their fingertips, one manicured nail at a time. After all, why not take the increasingly restrictive ageing suits that time hands out as birthday presents and accessorise them with bits and pieces of cheery delight? As my new idol rightly says,”When the fun goes out of dressing, you might as well be dead.’’
That evening, I ordered Apfel’s book and, yes, the T-shirt. My sister was right. The geriatric starlet is indeed someone I am happy to have on my middle-aged chest.
Originally published in Times of India
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