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There is a lie everyone tells you about ageing, that it’s serene, dignified, a graceful exercise in quiet refinement. That laughter lines are charming, errant silver grey hairs becoming, even sexy in the right light and brain fog… Well, let’s not. I’ll spare you the lecture; it is none of those things.
Ageing is messy, relentless and occasionally cruel, if you let it. You’re constantly misplacing your now-prescription glasses, knees pop unprovoked, fat migrates into wobbly, uninvited lumps no one asked for and patience, the vaunted virtue of maturity, thins to a nearly comic degree. And I’m not even 50 yet. It’s infuriating, sometimes borderline terrifying. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either lying or squinting through a rose-tinted, myopic lens.
Here’s the thing: we’re entering a new reality. Over‑65s are now the fastest-growing demographic globally, and in the Middle East the shift is striking. “Women in their 50s and 60s look completely different from the way our mothers did at the same age,” says Hadia Sinnou, an image consultant with over two decades’ experience shaping the region’s luxury scene. “Their lives are different, and so are their behaviours and expectations.” By 2030, older adults will make up nearly one in 10 in Lebanon and Egypt, the UAE’s over‑60 population will have surged by more than 50%, and even Saudi Arabia’s famously young population will be hosting a far more visible older generation. These aren’t abstract figures designed to induce anxiety; rather, they signal a new reality, one wholly uninterested in fading politely into the beige ether.
Of course, it’s not as if women simply woke up at 50 with cheekbones and clarity. The entire ecosystem of ageing has evolved. Hormone treatments, professional-grade skincare and a delicious array of cosmetic interventions promising radical glow and effervescence over lunch have reshaped the landscape, all buoyed by a wellness mania cranked up to 200. The playing field hasn’t only been levelled; it’s had a full makeover of its own. “A lot of my friends are in perimenopause or menopause, and while that used to mark the end of a woman’s attractiveness, or even her relevance, we’re seeing that shift completely,” confirms Hania Bissat, founder and trainer at Exhale fitness studio in Beirut, whose taunt, shredded abs and vivacious energy rival someone half her age. And yes, she wears a crop top – the apex of age-inappropriate attire – convincingly well. “My motto is simple: if you’ve got it, flaunt it!” The envelope is being pushed. “We face ageing head-on, stop apologising for maintenance and share our age proudly. It shows you can keep going, stay strong and inspire at every stage of life. If that’s ageing disgracefully, then we are fully on board.” Semi-bionic, collagen-boosted, biohacked works-in-progress. Who’s going to stop them?
And yet, some part of us still orbits youth, clinging to it like a sample-sized Alaïa we’re convinced might zip if we inhaled just so. Youth was a novelty, a wildcard era when walking into a room untested could tilt its axis. A hemline could still awe a crowd, a casual quip knock an admirer speechless. Or at least, that’s how it felt from the inside. Suddenly, we hit a number, and society, or the incessant gremlins in our heads, internalise rules we resent. Audacity becomes “too much”, self-expression “inappropriate”, and our bodies, once celebrated for experience, are scanned for flaws. “Too often I see women my age caught between extremes,” explains Sinnou. “Some are still clinging onto their former ’90s selves, others dressing like their daughters to feel young again. Both miss the point.”
That’s the trouble with age dissonance. Your mind is in fifth gear, your body is in third and the world is still assuming it knows which lane you belong in.
But here’s the twist. That ambiguity, this murky grey zone, is where the stakes get interesting. Expectations slacken, choices become sharper. Friction, as it turns out, is where the action happens. There’s too much softness anyway. Artsi Ifrach, the Moroccan designer behind Maison Artc, whose style is resplendently coded in layers of culture, eccentricity and esoteric glamour, sums it up: “People connect youth with freshness, but for me, getting older is far more lively. You know more, need less. After all, we grow up, not down.” That pressure to conform is optional and self-imposed. The vibrant women and men I spoke to for this piece have opted out. This isn’t a crisis, it’s a license for liberation.
“Adhering to social norms is boring!” Sahar Minkara, interior designer and founder of her eponymous shoe brand, who was comfortably clad in body-con latex and towering stilettos last time I saw her, is one to know. “I embrace freedom and a confident, bold sense of style. Sometimes sexy, sometimes provocative. Sure, I face criticism occasionally, but I see it as an opportunity to express my individuality without fear of judgment. My grandkids love that I break the stereotypical image of a grandmother.”
And stereotypes, as anyone paying attention knows, are long overdue for demolition. Just look towards Miuccia Prada for affirmation. She ditched the anxiety of ageing back in her early 30s and moved on to more interesting concerns, like rearranging the entire hierarchy of taste. At 74, she remains one of the most influential designers working today. As she recently put it, “Every morning when I wake up, I have to decide whether I am a 15-year-old girl or an old lady nearing death.” Age doesn’t need to be discounted or outrun. Clock it, accept it and then refuse to give a damn. Freedom isn’t tethered to youth; it’s the daily prerogative to choose your character, a small act of reinvention, tossing aside the one prescribed when it doesn’t fit.
“I don’t even know what age-appropriate means,” says Ghida Younes, creative director and artist behind My Fat Lady – her rotund, joy-filled character celebrating abundance and the bon vivant life. “Appropriate for whom? Who decides? Who even has the right answer? I’m not even fashion-appropriate [Laughs].” In her signature patterned turbans, bold fuchsia lip and, recently, a newfound love of Crocs, her style reflects an enigmatic personality accustomed to standing out. “With age, we get more fearless, less inhibited. We dress with more conviction, knowing exactly what lights us up.” Taking a beat, she adds, “I’m definitely not age-appropriate, and still party with 23-year-olds. My only fear is a dance floor trip breaking my hip!”
Here’s the other thing: everyone seems to be partying!
I was at a wedding recently for a couple in their early 30s, a room buzzing with hot young things, when it became clear that the real showstoppers were a gaggle of senior men with the air of rock stars who’d refused to retire. The eldest – a sprightly septuagenarian with more than a passing resemblance to an Egyptian Rod Stewart, decked out in a red velvet suit with ruffled sleeves and collar, a gargantuan watermelon-encrusted clutch and spongy platform sneakers – was tearing up the dance floor with the swagger of a Studio 54-veteran, which, frankly, he probably was. When I complimented his fabulous style and stamina, he stared at me incredulously, bewildered I’d even think to comment – then spun off to dance with a bevy of beauties, leaving me to mind my own knees. “Oh yes,” exclaims Bissat, “we still go out dancing and stay up ’til the early hours. We enjoy a bit of mischief, just more mindfully now.”
Scenes like this are mildly probative, rejecting the cliché that wisdom or grace are the only rewards of maturity – valuable, yes, but trite in comparison to life lived in full colour. Instead, there is a different privilege here. A cultivated discernment, a distance from youth that feels superior, a little dismissive, slightly elevated. “Freedom comes when you stop asking for permission,” adds Ms Younes. “Age can make you wise, but it can also make you wild.”
And yet, self-expression doesn’t solely roar. It’s in our middle age and later life that we step into our stride, are more settled in ourselves, with greater agency on our ideas, intentions and spending power – all of which feed a more nuanced style than our younger selves ever had. Take British-born Caroline Labouchere, based in Dubai, and Lebanese-born Grece Ghanem, now in Montreal, both of whom launched their modelling careers in their late 50s, ironically flaunting what society once admonished: going grey. Once a marker of age, it became their signature: glorious waist-length, silvery waves for Labouchere; a flaxen, coquettish pixie for Ghanem – stylish, intentional and thoroughly modern. Neither one is performing being young, yet fusty conventions on what maturation is supposed to look and feel like? Boom! Another myth debunked. “Style has no age,” writes Labouchere from London, where she’s travelling for work, “I find it best to break the rules, from not dyeing my hair to wearing ripped jeans, and enjoy the attention! That’s not something I would have said before my 50s.”
A handsome silver fox I encountered en route offered sage advice, now that I was finally less reluctant to hear it. “You’ve to accept what can’t be controlled, and find contentment in letting go.” A slap in the face, delivered with zen-like precision. It stung, but then it settled. Sinnou jumps in: “Come on, you don’t want to look like the same woman you were 10 or 20 years ago, now do you? Evolution is the most relevant thing we can do.” Amen to that.
But in case you needed a reminder: this is not a sprint. If it were, you’d already be out. It’s how you play the long game that counts, the daily negotiations to show up, for yourself and for the world, whether in Crocs or platforms, pink-tinted hair or sombre brown. Ultimately, authenticity is the fiercest, most defiant punked-out statement we can make.
The world may squint, tut or whisper, but the women and men who control their narrative don’t pause, don’t explain and certainly don’t step aside. They thrill. They challenge. And yes, they change.
Whoever comes out with the last laugh wins. Guess who’s smiling now?
