Late Bloomer!
“Sciura” – from the Italian: Milanese slang for a stylish, put-together, older woman
It’s no secret that I have spent decades believing I was ugly (see: https://labellatestarossa.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-ugly-truth.html )
But something shifted in my life when I moved to southwestern Ontario 20 years ago that has accelerated over the past 18 months.
The first incident came only 6 months after I moved here. The man I was dating at the time took me on a winery tour in the Leamington area. And at one crowded tasting, a woman crossed the room and complimented my outfit, saying how it all “went together” and she loved the belt I was wearing. I was shocked and must have turned 17 shades of red when I thanked her.
Then it happened at the fabric store. With a client at work. At the library. In the grocery store. And more...
Then I turned 60 and the compliments from strangers only picked up. I remember being in the LCBO buying my birthday champagne and being told that I “rocked” my leopard-print pants and my curly red hair was “fab”.
The biggest decision I made at this time was embracing white hair. It was a traumatic experience letting go of the red. Being a redhead is an identity unto itself, and I felt like I was losing part of myself. The only way I could do that was cold turkey – over a long weekend, I used a gentle colour remover in two steps and then the GOAT of hair toners – Wella T18 aka White Lady.
Months later, I was offered a job as a judicial assistant. I looked upon the new position as an excuse to dress up for work. I bought suit jackets at Goodwill, Winners and the Bay, and on Poshmark. I wore the few brooches I had and bought more. I put on more jewelry and started wearing brighter colours.
Walking down the street one day, a young woman stopped me to tell me I looked “absolutely lovely”.
This was also the time I agreed to a knee replacement – or two. As I filled out the paperwork to get on the waiting list (it’s VERY long in London), the doctor casually said it would help to lose 10% of my body weight ahead of the surgery.
Me being me, I figured if I lost more maybe I could avoid the surgery altogether (ha!). So, I went to my family doctor, a man who had never bothered me about my weight the way my doctor in Ottawa did, and started on Contrave. I didn’t think I could handle self-injection and our health plan at work only approved Ozempic for diabetics at the time.
After two years, I had to regroup. Yes, I had lost over 50 pounds, but my knees continued to deteriorate, and narcotics are contraindicated with Contrave. I had to face the needle and start giving myself Wegovy so I could deal with the pain.
And I *needed* those pain meds, the rapid access clinic that gets you into a surgical wait line lost my referral – twice!
In addition to a plain black folding cane, I got a leopard print one, and a flower-printed one. I was determined to be stylish even with my mobility aids!
And it must have worked – one night I got on the bus to go home from work and was told I “look very pretty today” by the gentleman sitting across from me. Then a week later, same bus, same time and a woman looked at me as I got on and, in a heavy French accent, said “oh my, you are so chic”!
Chic – a word no one had ever said about me in my life!
Four and half years after starting on the knee replacement journey, I had my first surgery in December 2025. I don’t recommend doing this in the winter, especially one as cold and snowy as the one we just experienced. I was stuck inside for more than 2 months other than attending physiotherapy.
Out of boredom, I bought more clothes online!
Returning to the office was hard, but I wore my beautiful new clothes like armor; look good, feel good, right?
One March morning I woke in incredible pain, but we had a big meeting that day with our regional senior judge, and I needed to be onsite. I had been reading coverage of Paris fashion week online that week and decided to wear some new stuff and go full-on punk Chanel.
On went a simple black turtleneck, a ruffled black tulle skirt, black tights, black Chelsea boots, and a cream Chanel-style jacket and 5 or 6 strings of faux pearls.
At lunch, I had to go to the drugstore to pick up a prescription. As I walked through the aisles, a young woman came up to me and said, “I love what you’re wearing, this whole thing is just wonderful.” As I said thank you, she continued “I want to be you when I grow up”. I told her she just made my whole day, and she said she was glad.
I walked back to work still hurting, but feeling so much better about everything.
The young lady was wearing dark glasses, I don’t know if she was 30 or 40 years younger than me, but she made me realize that I had - at long last - become the person I wanted to be when I grew up.
And I realized that I had spent so many years not feeling the way that all these strangers made me feel - chic!
I started writing this blog post shortly after this encounter and put it aside. Then an article in The Toronto Star in mid-April brought the feeling right back to me. A story titled “Grown women are finally being celebrated in fashion, as stylish grandmothers land campaigns and walk catwalks”.
And this is where I learned about “sciura”. Sono una sciura!
My next knee replacement is fast approaching. I know that this time, instead of shopping online to relieve boredom, once I am cleared to walk up and down stairs, I'll be spending time in my basement sewing room, using the stash of beautiful fabrics that I never used because I felt unworthy of them.
Because I am worthy. And I feel good about that!
