The Woman in the Mirror Wears Her Own Clothes Now

by Leslie Williams

There is a blazer hanging in my closet that I have not worn in three years. It is perfectly pressed, impeccably tailored, and entirely somebody else’s idea of who I should be. It still has the tags on. I keep it as a reminder.

For most of my adult life, I dressed for the role I thought I was supposed to play. The corporate version of me wore structured blazers in navy and charcoal — colors that said I am serious, please take me seriously. The married version of me wore what my ex called “put-together,” which mostly meant nothing too bold, nothing too bright, nothing that made me the most interesting person in the room. The mother version of me wore whatever survived the washing machine. By the time I hit forty-five and found myself starting over, I had a closet full of costumes and no idea what I actually liked to wear.

Reinventing yourself, I have learned, starts in the most unexpected place: the dressing room.

It happened accidentally on a Tuesday in October. I had ducked into a thrift store to kill time before a dentist appointment and walked out an hour later with a pair of wide-leg linen trousers, a silk blouse printed with tiny peonies, and a pair of earrings shaped like crescent moons. None of it matched what I already owned. All of it felt exactly like me.

The total came to twenty-three dollars.

I wore the linen trousers to my daughter’s Thanksgiving visit. She looked at me the way she used to look at math homework — uncertain, then slowly impressed. “Mom,” she said, “you look cool.” I had not been called cool since approximately 1994. I am not ashamed to say I replayed that moment for days.

What nobody tells you about finding your personal style is that it requires a willingness to look ridiculous in the process. I tried on a sequined blazer in a consignment shop and laughed so hard the salesclerk came to check on me. I bought a pair of platform sneakers that made me feel powerful and also slightly concerned about my knees. I wore a vintage scarf tied in my hair to a book club meeting and was informed by three women over sixty that I looked “très chic,” which is the highest possible compliment from women over sixty.

Style, I am slowly understanding, is not about what looks right. It is about what feels true.

The fashion industry will spend a considerable amount of money trying to convince you that you need this season’s color palette, this year’s silhouette, this particular shoe that has been declared essential. I have spent enough years listening to that noise. What I know now is that the most stylish women I have ever met were not following trends — they were simply, stubbornly, joyfully themselves.

My friend Carol wears vintage kimonos over everything. My neighbor Ruth has not deviated from her signature red lipstick and hoop earrings in forty years. My pottery teacher, Sarah, wears paint-splattered overalls to every occasion, including her own birthday dinner. Each of them walks into a room and immediately becomes the most interesting person in it. Not because they are trying to be. Because they have stopped trying to be anything else.

I am a work in progress. My current aesthetic could generously be described as “bookish woman who discovered thrift stores and has no regrets.” I mix vintage with new, patterns with solids, heels with sneakers. I wear things that make me happy in the morning, which turns out to be a surprisingly effective way to start the day.

I donated the blazer. Not all of it — I kept the shoulder pads, which I am told are back in style, though I am holding onto them until I am fully convinced. The rest went to a woman who will probably wear it better than I ever did, because for her it will not be a performance. It will just be Tuesday.

What remains in my closet now is smaller and stranger and entirely mine. A green velvet jacket I found for eight dollars. A sundress with pockets deep enough to hold my whole life in them. A pair of earrings shaped like tiny globes that my daughter says are “a lot,” which I have chosen to interpret as a compliment.

Getting dressed used to feel like putting on armor. Now it feels like introducing myself. And it turns out, when you finally get to dress as yourself, you are delighted to meet her.