Saskia Sarginson: ‘Could my wrinkles earn me money?’

I hate having my picture taken. As soon as the lens finds me, I freeze. I’m not part of the selfie generation. I’m old school. I don’t document my every move with photographic evidence of me living my best life, my face angled just so to catch the light. As soon as someone whips out an iPhone, I frown and duck.

So, it’s odd that on this grey London day I’m sitting in a studio looking down a large lens with several people gathered behind it, scrutinising the real me, and then looking at the frighteningly large image of me appearing on a screen behind the camera, whispering about what they see and pointing at parts of my face.

A year ago, while walking my dogs in my local park, a young woman approached me with a business card. “I’d like you to join my modelling agency,” she said. “Who? Me?” I said, aware that I was over 60, dressed in muddy jeans with no makeup on and dirty hair. “Er… I don’t think so,” I told her.

“I’m a granny,” I added, as if that explained everything. But it turns out older faces are in demand. My wrinkles could actually earn me money.

After a few minutes of existential angst I decided that – hell, yes, I could. I’d be mad to turn down the chance of what seemed to me at the time to be free money. The life of an author (unless they go by the title of JK Rowling) is very similar to the myth of the scribe in the garret, hunched over a flickering candle, pen in hand, hunger snapping at the door. There’s not really a living wage in it, which is why most writers, including me, supplement it with whatever they can get their hands on: teaching, editing, journalism. So why not modelling? I’m not proud, I thought, if they want me for a chairlift ad, I’ll do it.

But as with all things that seem too good to be true, it was. The journey from being handed the card to the studio in London was not a speedy one. Part of the problem was that I went off to castings dragging impostor syndrome with me. As soon as I walked in the door, words of apology spilled out of my mouth. “I’m not really a model,” I’d confess to the receptionist, casting agent, or anyone who’d listen: “I’m a granny.” And I’d get up photos of the cherubic child on my screen to prove it. I felt that if I got it in first, it would save everyone the embarrassment of having to explain that I wasn’t wanted. Because, obviously, I was too old.

I felt ridiculous, standing on a taped X in a dark room, being asked to repeat the same line over and over, about how fabulous my hair looked now that I’d used a particular product, which I’d been directed to show to the camera while expressing extreme joy. “Could you hold the tube the right way up, love?” “Could you not cover the name with your hand?” “Could you do that all over again without blinking?” Holding a tube up and smiling at the same time is surprisingly difficult.

I got “heavy pencilled”, for jobs – a good thing. But the actual jobs themselves eluded me. My impostor syndrome grew garrulous – see, told you, you’re not a model, you’re a wrinkly fraud.

I won’t pretend that the rejections didn’t hurt, even if my impostor syndrome was lapping them up. Criticism and rejection are part of my day job. But there’s only so much of it a person can take.

Still, I persisted; the thought of all that lovely cash and not wanting to disappoint my agent, spurring me on. Since the pandemic, lots of auditions are self-taped. And thank goodness for that, because embarrassment and self-respect are checked at the door while following instructions like: stare at a pretend dog and cry! Dance like nobody’s looking! Tell a funny story and bring lots of energy! My facial tics were scary on that one.

And then came a live audition in which I had half my face painted in heavy-duty foundation. I felt quite glamorous while the makeup artist was dabbing away at my skin – but a quick glance in the loo mirror told me I looked like an unfinished ancient geisha girl.

But I got the job. A real beauty job advertising makeup. As they didn’t let me know until the day before, I’d presumed it was another “no” and eaten my bodyweight in chocolate over the weekend. But they didn’t care about my spare tyre; they just wanted my face, wrinkles and all.

The job entailed having more makeup applied than I thought possible – all manner of bronzers and blushers and highlighters – and then false eyelashes, and black stuff inside my eyes, something called “top lining” I discovered. My reflection in the mirror peered back at me, a bit blurry without my glasses, but, wow, I thought, who knew what makeup could do?

When my hair and makeup had been finished, an assistant handed me what appeared to be a white handkerchief: “You all right wearing this?” she asked airily.

“What, you mean this belt?”

“It’s a boob tube,” she explained, helpfully.

The reply that crossed my mind was, “Honey, if I was a stone thinner and 30 years younger, maybe.” But out loud I tried for a more subtle, “Um. You know. Er. It’s not really… me.” We compromised on a flesh-coloured vest to be touched out later.

Positioned on a stool close to the camera, I tried to remember the “smize” thing, smiling with your eyes, that I’d heard about on a reality TV programme. It’s quite hard to do under a tonne of makeup that’s making your eyeballs feel as if they’ve been rolled in vinegar. But I tried. My image popped up on a huge screen every time the photographer pressed the button. I could just glimpse myself on it – the expanse of my features magnified and then examined by three makeup artists, a hairdresser, the woman from the company, her assistant, the photographer and his assistant. They huddled over every shot, discussing in urgent whispers, then some of them would rush over and do things to me. At one point I had three people attending to my eyebrows with great concentration. It took at least 15 minutes.

My impostor syndrome took over, of course, especially when they were considering my face and frowning. They’re wondering how to tell you to go home, the voice in my head sneered. They’ve booked you by mistake. But I got to the end of the day, and everyone had been kind and treated me like a professional. They removed my makeup and I left, feeling elated that I’d got away with it. Nobody realised I wasn’t a model, I thought in amazement, as I cycled away.

It turns out that being over 60 and a granny and a model are not mutually exclusive. After all, a model just means to represent something, so why not older women? The UK population is an ageing one, with more than 15.5 million people aged 50 and over. I don’t think that including older models (known as “mature”, as in cheese, or “classic”, as in car) is just a cynical move to pander to the Grey Pound – although that must be part of the strategy. I’m hopeful that it’s also a genuine recognition that women past childbearing age are not redundant. My own insecurities about my drooping jowls and crows-feet come from growing up in a world where young, wrinkle-free women with perfect features were held up as the only image worth aspiring to, the only look that had any value. But public perception changes over time and our understanding of identity has become more complex than ever before. Older women, once considered undesirable hags who should stay hidden, are finally being recognised and seen. Our wrinkles are proof that we’ve lived, learned, suffered, grieved, celebrated, and loved. They are marks of wisdom, strength and experience. We can shrug off the embarrassment that plagues younger people. “Who cares what anyone else thinks?” is something I hear my older friends say all the time. And that mindset gives freedom. We’ve often been perceived as a threat precisely because we’re not going to stay quiet and behave.

Being asked to work as a model thrust me into a world where looks seemed to be the only currency that counted. I had to remind myself that I was representing my age group, not pretending to be 20, or even 40. Older women are a powerful force; they do so many important things, from providing childcare for grandchildren and volunteering to being CEOs and professionals of all kinds. We may not care about making fools of ourselves, but we do care about our health, looks and lives; we are a valuable part of our families, communities and, yes, the marketplace. We are not invisible.

So, count me in; I’m up for modelling jobs – be it an ad for a chairlift or a faceful of makeup. But, if anybody wants me to wear a white boob tube, sorry, that won’t be happening.

Seven Months of Summer by Saskia Sarginson is published by Piatkus, priced at £14.99