THIS IS WHAT 60 LOOKS LIKE 🍒
Apparently, at sixty, I'm supposed to calm down. Dress sensibly. Choose sensible shoes. Wear sensitive colors. And generally become a slightly quieter version of myself. That sounds exhausting. So I went to New York Fashion Week instead. Because if there's one place where nobody asks you to tone it down, behave yourself or dress your age, it's New York. Fuchsia. Ridiculous sunglasses. Trainers instead of heels. Coffee in one hand and absolutely no intention of becoming invisible. Perfect. I've never understood the expression “act your age.” Which part of sixty am I supposed to act? The part that has survived enough bullshit to stop caring what people think? The part that finally knows what she likes? Or the part that has enough shoes to know that sensitive ones are wildly overrated? Age doesn't make you boring. Giving up does. And I have absolutely no plans for that. So if you're looking for me, I'll be the sixty-year-old woman in fuchs...

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