Even now, decades on from the glamorous 1960s and my youthful prime, I still find it hard to accept that I’m old.
After all, I can run upstairs (on a good day), kick a ball with the grandchildren (ten minutes max) and continue to cling to that hoary old chestnut of age being just a number — and that you’re only as old as you feel.
At fun reunion lunches with a gang of my old (in both senses) model friends, we call ourselves the Golden Oldies. So I had to laugh when my youngest granddaughter, with her sparkly, Persil-white teeth, recently peered at me curiously and said: ‘Why are your teeth sort of golden, Gran–gran?’ There are certainly moments when I feel every second of my 82 years. And I’ll admit that a fair few come when I look in the mirror, because there’s no quicker reminder that I’m a long way from that young creature who was showered with compliments in my teens.
When I was 14 my father, who was an Air Force doctor, was posted to Singapore and we travelled out there by troopship. One of the sailors would doff his hat when I passed and out would pop a note telling me in capital letters that I was beautiful. I loved it! On the return voyage a year later, I garnered even more attention. Chaperoned by a couple who were rushed off their feet, I had a terrific time as glamorous young soldiers competed for my attention.
Sandra Howard, 82, was photographed in London, Paris and New York, even appearing on the cover of U.S. Vogue several times. The former model speaks about her struggles with ageing. Sandra pictured left aged 26 and right now aged 82
I had no shortage of partners at the shipboard deck games and dances, and when we docked in Zanibar on my 16th birthday they threw a party for me ashore. They made me feel like a million dollars and swelled my head far too much.
Back home, though, it was head down for A-levels, but a stroke of luck was just around the corner. Aged 18, and a student at the Lucie Clayton modelling agency, I was sent on spec as a possible stand-in for a model who’d fallen ill.
The shoot was for Vogue’s ‘Young Idea’ feature with the renowned fashion photographer Norman Parkinson. He liked ‘raw material,’ I was told, and I might just do…
It turned out I did, and with my first Vogue photoshoot under my belt I was soon travelling the world, being photographed in London, Paris and New York, even appearing on the cover of U.S. Vogue several times.
I was constantly showered with compliments, photographers saying ‘you’re fab, doll’, ‘those cheekbones’, ‘you’re ace!’
I tried hard to take all the flowery flattery with a large pinch of salt and not let it go to my head. Photographers, after all, will say anything to try to get the best picture.
Sandra modelling diamond jewellery aged 29 in 1969, and (right), aged 82, now a grandmother and novelist
Yet, I still grew to expect heads to turn when I walked into a room. I got used to men eyeing me up . . . and women looking down their noses at me.
I enjoyed the wolf whistles from builders, the occasional winking upgrade when checking in for a flight. No, it’s not right, but I’m afraid life is easier when you’re pretty. I could even park my car in private business car parks if I made large hopeful eyes at the man in charge.
I loved it all, so it would be disingenuous to say otherwise. I wasn’t stuck up, knowing I was just lucky to have my looks and career. But I enjoyed the warmth of male attention.
And so, as my 20s gave way to my 30s and then to motherhood, the flow of compliments began to ebb — and I was surprised by how much I missed them.
I knew it was coming — all models do. Every modelling career, however successful it may be, follows the same inevitable trajectory.
The ageing process is not a beautiful woman’s friend. There comes a point when you have to bow to the laws of gravity and time, and start to think: ‘What next?’ Without these tools of my trade, who was I?
I enjoyed the wolf whistles. No it’s not right, but I’m afraid life is easier when you’re pretty
It was comforting, therefore, to read actress Greta Scacchi saying she’d found her own way of reconciling herself to this progression.
At the age of 62, she says she now views it as ‘a relief’ not to have to be branded ‘the beautiful one’ any more as she’s cast into older, more characterful roles — ones that don’t require her to count calories or ponder the pros and cons of the surgeon’s knife.
Like so many, I vividly remember Greta’s cool, stand-out beauty when she starred in White Mischief. That bone structure! That sex appeal!
So forgive me if I find it hard to believe she didn’t experience her moments of depression as she went through this period of adjustment as a new, older, face greeted her in the mirror each day.
There must have been times when it felt as though she was looking at a stranger.
Such is the curse of being beautiful. While every woman finds it hard to some degree coming to terms with the ominous tick, tick of the clock, any woman even half as beautiful as Greta was must inevitably find the ageing process harder still.
That’s why we do our utmost to keep looking our best, chasing that much needed morale boost that we get from looking good — and a few compliments along the way. It’s why we buy literally tons of make-up, go to nail bars, spend hundreds of pounds at a time at the hairdressers; why some also choose to spend thousands on Botox, boobs jobs and facelifts. Whether we’re in our 20s, 40s or 60s, we never stop trying.
Sandra in 1964. The former model reveals that she believes life is easier when you are pretty
I remember spending a lot of time staring in mirrors during that ‘transitional’ period.
If people saw me minutely studying myself, it wasn’t to do with vanity, it was the gloomy realisation that I looked more tired, more lined. Just simply, and very depressingly, a much less eye-catching, less glowing, less bouncy older woman.
The modelling jobs were slowly drying up. Gradually I had afternoons, then whole days, without a booking — something unheard of in my prime — and my spirits sank.
I tried cucumber on my eyes, eight hours’ sleep, one remedy after the other to stave off the years. But nothing too drastic — my husband wouldn’t allow any of that, saying he loved me just as I was.
Comforting words. Far less so, however, was when a man at a dinner party said with genuine interest: ‘You’ve got lots of little crow’s feet round your eyes. Perhaps that’s why my wife never smiles…’
My 30s were still busy and exciting, while a wonderful surprise party on a barge on the Thames took my mind off the milestone of turning 40. But having an early menopause at only 44 and eventually turning 50 was when the blackest of depressions set in.
Without much hope of anything more than a trickle of ‘older woman’ modelling jobs, I felt I’d been cast adrift; an empty shell.
Sandra reveals how she has now accepted her age and doesn’t believe or act like she is the age she is
Apart from anything else, I’d always earned my own money and had been able to treat the family, especially my mother who’d been widowed very early and struggled. To make matters worse, timings had conspired so I felt my role as a mother was diminishing, too. One child had already left university; the others were taking school exams.
I needed a new project, and tried doing a bit of PR. But my heart wasn’t in it and I worried about what else I could possibly do.
Other modelling friends had similar moans, but some were finding rewarding outlets. My closest friend became a successful interior decorator, sparking my envy.
It was a somewhat bitter realisation that if I hadn’t been so photogenic in my youth, I might have gone to university and found a career that would have become all the more absorbing as the years rolled by. My friends from outside the modelling world seemed far more level-headed, and less obsessed with looking their best, than us ‘golden oldies’ who still needed to pile on the make-up.
I remember one outstandingly beautiful model who, as the years went on, had men troubles and took to drink. Though she still had shadows of her former beauty, she never seemed to have found that sense of fulfilment that makes life so worthwhile.
It was only when, aged 60, I finally had the confidence to realise my secret ambition to write novels that I regained the long-lost sense of excitement and thrill.
And, like Greta Scacchi, I found new avenues opening up, often where least expected, as my looks no longer occupied centre stage. I’m probably taken a bit more seriously now that I write books. Writing novels opens doors: you meet people, learn so much from research, get asked for your opinion. My life is busier now than I’d ever have imagined it could be, back in those long-ago modelling days.
I share views, both literary and political, that I was far too shy to voice back then, when I feared everyone would assume that — as a model — I was an airhead.
While I still like to imagine that people might be thinking ‘she doesn’t look so bad for her age’ when we meet, I’m under no illusions. Long gone are the days when a pharmacist would query my pensionable status and make me preen, or those times when my hackles would bristle if some kind person offered me their seat on the train or Tube.
Now I’m only too glad to accept the seat gratefully. I love it, too, when glamorous young men whip the luggage out of my wrinkly old hands and carry it effortlessly up or down the stairs. Yet when they do, I still smile and turn on as much charm as I can muster.
The other day I slipped near the bottom of an escalator (so embarrassing), and a big, burly fellow gathered me up and carried me to safety.
I still instinctively fluttered my eyelashes as I thanked him. Old habits die hard!
I refuse to think and act old, too. My husband, Michael, and I recently went on a road trip, driving from Seattle to LA, living out of one bag, and I loved every minute. We’re dreaming of exploring Chile and Easter Island next.
All the same, it’s impossible to avoid those daily reminders — stiffness, creaky joints, background noise (the excuse for deafness) — of just how old I really am.
But how you experience ageing does all depend on your mindset.
My elder son is in his 50s. He was in his 30s when he suddenly decided to lose a bit of weight, start training and compete in senior athletics. Now he’s delighted every time another birthday with a big 0 comes round as he goes from being the oldest in one group to the youngest in the next.
Perhaps if we all viewed getting older with such wonderful positivity, we’d stay younger in spirit.
I know that whatever future age I manage to reach, I shall still cling to that old chestnut that you’re only as old as you feel.
- Sandra Howard’S latest novel Love at War, published by the Book Guild, is out now. Follow her on Twitter @howardsandrac
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