Suddenly at Sixty You Realise: What Once Seemed a Disaster Was Actually Bliss SOMEWHERE BETWEEN 30 AND 60 Agatha was preparing for her 60th birthday. The number sounded ominous, and she didn’t even want to say it out loud. Once upon a time it was already considered old age, the beginning of decline, and even in today’s more liberal classifications, it’s the transition from middle age to senior years. Gloomy, really. The last time she reacted so sharply to an age was when she turned thirty. That felt like the end of youth. But now, looking at her children, she just smiled at the memory. Agatha checked in on herself, peered in her walk-in wardrobe mirror: “Could be worse.” She gave her reflection a twirl of approval: “Looks alright, feels about forty. Nothing aches, touch wood, everything works and bends.” “Still got some mileage,” she winked at the mirror and went off to do her husband’s bidding. They decided to celebrate in style: a Greek resort, friends and family. Agatha fought it at first—said it was the kind of birthday to reflect, not party. Far too much money, and too far from home. But she was outvoted. Her husband—Mike, known as Mouse—promised to sort everything. Even a Leonard Cohen slideshow, edit by her youngest brother. And the photos? Well, who else? Of course, her. Agatha sat on the carpet, sighing as she emptied the first drawer. There would have been more photos, if not for two emigrations and endless house moves. Childhood and teenage snaps barely survived—when she left the Soviet Union at twenty-something, sentimentality was a luxury. She recovered some from her parents, but they’d been through the same. There was her first marriage and then divorce. She took the ones that mattered: herself, her kids, friends. The rest was left “for later”—and later never happened. Her new husband Mouse, unlike her first, a semi-pro photographer, wasn’t big on taking photos. Still, they’d stockpiled plenty in the early years of their life together. Then it all changed—nobody bothered digging out a camera anymore. Pictures vanished on forgotten mobiles, parched old hard drives, and folders with unreadable labels. Gone were the albums you could leaf through, touch, remember. Rummaging through the pile, she stumbled on a graduation snap—her in that dress her grandparents sent from Israel. The photo from her hospital placement after fourth year. Her elder son’s bar mitzvah. He was so nervous! Then—a photo stuck to another. She peeled them apart. Nonna. And Agatha in a blue evening dress at Agra Harik. Nonna had joined their group at Sinai Hospital in Detroit partway through winter, switching from gynaecology to general practice. Petite, skinny, cropped hair and huge eyes—she looked a teenager or a fairy. You wanted to shield her, protect her. Until she talked—then you realised just how sharp she was. An émigré from Yerevan, she’d come with her mum and husband—he was her supervisor, many years older. She skipped the prep courses, passed her exams first try, scoring so high she could pick any residency. She chose gynaecology—good status, practical, close to her husband. After six months of sleepless nights, she cracked and changed to general practice. She and Agatha clicked instantly. And when Nonna’s mum started looking after Agatha’s child—they were practically family. Graduation loomed; chats about specialisation started: “Maybe I should do rheumatology?” Agatha mused. “Why?” Nonna sighed. “Two extra years training, then waiting for patients. General practice—you’re thrown in, you see everyone. You’re queen bee!” “You’re so sensible!” Agatha admired. Agatha went the GP route; Nonna chose rheumatology. In Los Angeles. She had a picture-perfect family: mother, husband, brother—they adored her. The only thing missing—a child. IVF, hope, tears. Then—a miracle. A daughter, just before Nonna finished her programme. She chose LA, among fellow Armenians. Their parting was tearful; the friends rang often, Nonna’s mum snatching the phone: “How’s my boy?”—meaning Agatha’s son. Then the calls faded out. Out of the blue—an invite to Agra Harik, the Armenian first birthday. Nonna had warned them: a lavish party—£5,000 dress, French hairdresser, £100 up-dos—this was still the ‘90s! Agatha freaked, but Julia the hairdresser reassured her: “Your hair’s great. Anyone can manage. A brush, a dryer, a spritz—done.” Agatha bought a sale blue one-shoulder dress, a suit for her husband, a giant checked suitcase (her trademark—easy to spot!), and some fake tan. No time for real sun, and her Michigan pallor—white-blue—might go with the dress, but no way would it pass in California. They landed late Friday. Saturday—a whirl round LA. Agatha dug out her comfy trainers; husband wore a DETROIT: COULD BE WORSE! tee and off they went. Their plan was ambitious: Griffith Park, Hollywood sign selfie, Walk of Fame, Santa Monica, the Pier. In reality—Griffith closed for filming, Walk under scaffolding, crowds, traffic. Lunch was healthy, expensive and average. Husband grumbled—then took photos anyway. Afterwards, the ocean: yogi in crane pose, sweetcorn, skateboarders, a whiff of sun cream. Cruising Sunset, every sign felt straight from a film set. “I think Elton John once dined here,” Agatha peered into her guidebook. “Well, maybe not Elton, but someone who looks just like him,” husband snorted. On Rodeo Drive she tried on £2,000 sunglasses, spritzed luxury perfume, left, head held high, trailing scent. A “Pretty Woman” moment, almost. Sunday. A breakfast inhaled too fast for its own good, then preparations for the party. The fake tan—applied exactly as instructed—dried in streaks. Result: zebra. Only orange. She refused help from her husband—he was too playful after breakfast champagne, and she didn’t trust where that might lead. The only hair salon open was in Chinatown. The stylist, speaking zero English, went wild with curlers and lacquer. Agatha risked opening her eyes, braced herself in the mirror: orange face framed by something solid as scaffolding—a classic 80s perm. She looked away, vowing never again. Her husband, the artist, offered to do her makeup: “You never use enough! You need drama.” He attacked her face like a canvas: stepping back, peering, dabbing more. The result: purple-blue eyelids, brick-brown cheekbones, wine lips. Agatha—shocked. Husband—thrilled. On the street, no taxi would stop. “They probably think I’m a lady of the night,” she said. “You try—you look respectable enough to be my pimp.” He snorted, but did the job, hand in the air. The party was in Nonna’s sparkling new home in Glendale—America’s Armenian HQ. Everything gleamed: tables, children, music, grandmas, waiters. And in the middle—Nonna, dazzling as ever. And with a cold sore. “It’s all the stress,” she mourned, a future immunologist. “I tried so hard…” “You’re still the most beautiful here,” said Agatha. And it was true. Now she looks at that photo: blue dress, orange skin, an 80s perm, a friend with a cold sore—and two beautiful young faces. Then—it had felt like a disaster. Now—she’d take it all back in a heartbeat. The cold sore, the fake tan, the silly hair. Just to live it again, side by side with her friend, that feeling that it was all still ahead. Honestly? Somewhere between thirty and sixty—those were the fun years. And after that—well, who knows. She’s still got her brush. And now, she never struggles with a tan.

You hit sixty and suddenly realisewhat once felt like a disaster was actually just happiness in disguise.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN 30 AND 60

Anne was getting ready for her 60th birthday. Sixty sounded a bit terrifying, to be honest. She couldnt even bring herself to say it out loud. Not so long ago, that age wouldve been considered proper old, the start of the decline, and even now, if you go by the new, softer categories, its that bridge from middle-aged to elderly. Pretty gloomy, right?

The last time shed felt quite so rattled by a number was at thirty. Back then, it felt like her youth had packed up and left. Now, watching her kids, Anne could only chuckle thinking about those days.

She paused to check her reflection in the hallway mirror, listening in to how she felt.

Well, still holding together, she thought.

She spun round, gave herself a look over, and gave a little nod.

Looks decent, feels about fortyish, she decided. Nothing aches, touch wood, all bits working and moving.

Well moan about getting older another time, she winked at the mirror, then set off to run an errand her husband had asked her to do.

Theyd decided her 60th had to be a proper do: a big bash at a resort in Greece, with friends and family in tow. At first Anne fought the ideait was such a milestone, really one for contemplation, not for a knees-up, plus the expense and hassle of travel. But she was outvoted. Her husbandMike, affectionately called Mousepromised to sort every detail. Even slideshow photos to Leonard Cohen songs! His younger brother would do the editing, but the photos well, that would be Anne, of course.

She plonked herself on the sitting room carpet and, with a sigh, tipped out the contents of the first drawer. There wouldve been many more photos if not for two big moves and a lifetime of packing and unpacking. Childhood and teenage snaps were almost gonewhen shed left England in her early twenties, thered been no room for sentiment. She managed to find a few at her parents, but much was scattered or lost. Then came her first marriage and the divorce. Shed only taken a handfulhers, her kids, some friends. Much more was left behind for next timebut next time never came.

Her new husband, Mouse, was the complete opposite of her firstwhod been half-professional with his camera. Mouse hated fussing with photos, but theyd built up a decent stash in the early years together. Then life changed, and nobody bothered with proper cameras. Pictures ended up on old mobiles, forgotten computers, folders with unreadable names. Gone were the days of flipping through albums, of pausing and remembering.

Sorting through it all, she stumbled on a photo from her graduation, in the very dress her grandparents had sent her from Israel. Another one from her hospital placement after fourth year. And therethe bar mitzvah of her eldest. Hed been so nervous that day!

Suddenlya photo stuck to another. She pried it apart gently. Nora. Next to her, Anne in her royal blue evening dress at Noras daughters first birthday.

Nora had arrived in their group at St. Thomas Hospital in London halfway through winter, transferring from gynaecology to general medicine. Petite, pale, with a pixie haircut and enormous eyesshe looked sixteen. You just wanted to look after her. Then shed open her mouth, and youd realise she was the cleverest one there.

Emigre from Armenia, shed come with her mum and her much-older husbandher supervisor from her training days. She never did preparatory courses, just aced the exams first go, with offers from anywhere she wanted. She chose gynae for the glamour, the convenience, to be near her husband. After six months of sleepless nights, she switched to general medicine.

Anne and Nora clicked straightaway. When Noras mum started looking after Annes littlest, they were like family. Soon talk turned to specialities.

I might do rheumatology Anne mused.

Why bother? Nora would sigh. Another couple years stuck studying, waiting for patients. As a GP you see everyone, right away. Youre the queen.

Anne thought she was brilliant.

In the end, Anne trained in general medicine and Nora went for rheumatology. In London.

Nora had the dream family: mum, husband, brotherall obsessed with her. The only thing missing was a child. There were endless clinics, tears and waiting. And thensuccess! A daughter, just before Noras programme finished. She decided to stay in London, in the heart of the Armenian community.

Their parting was tearful, and at first the two women spoke all the time. Noras mum would snatch the phone to ask after my darling boyAnnes youngest. But gradually, calls became less frequent. Then, out of the bluean invite to Noras big Armenian first birthday party for her daughter.

Nora said it would be a showstopper: designer dress worth thousands, a Parisian hairdresser, fancy-dress hairdos and this was the late 90s! Anne panicked at first, but her local hairdresser Sally calmed her down.

Youve got great hair, love. Any stylist will do. Just a round brush, a bit of spray, sorted.

Anne grabbed a blue off-the-shoulder dress in the summer sales, a suit for Mouse, a massive tartan suitcase (shes always gone for bold luggageyou can spot it at a mile off), and a bottle of self-tan. She never had time for a real tan, and her chalky, bluish English skin might have worked up north, but it would just look odd in London for such a glittering do.

They flew in late on the Friday. Saturday was set aside for taking in London like tourists. Anne pulled trainers from her bag, Mouse put on his Manchestercould be worse! T-shirt, and off they went.

Grand plans: Hyde Park, selfie with Big Ben, Abbey Road, the West End, and the South Bank. In realityHyde Park was shut for a festival, the West End full of construction, crowds everywhere, relentless traffic. Still, they had a healthy, overpriced and distinctly unmemorable lunch. Mouse grumbled but took photos.

Then came the Thames, a yoga instructor doing crane pose, dodgy hot dogs, skateboarders, and the smell of sun cream. They cruised down the Embankment, every signboard looking like it belonged on a film set.

I swear Elton John had dinner there once, Anne said, peeking in her guidebook.

Or it was a bloke who looked a lot like him, Mouse snorted.

On Bond Street, Anne popped into a designer shop, tried on sunglasses worth nearly two grand, doused herself in fancy perfume, and strode out, trail of scent in her wake. Almost Julia Roberts in Pretty Womanbut not quite.

Sunday. After wolfing down a breakfast that deserved better, Anne started getting ready for the big party.

The self-tan, though used by-the-book, dried in streaks: she looked like an orange zebra in the end.

She refused her husbands helphe was tipsy on champagne, and she wasnt taking any chances.

Every hairdresser was shut. The only open salon was in Chinatown. The stylist, with not a word of English, rolled her hair onto curlers and emptied an entire can of hairspray over it. Anne only risked a peep in the mirrorher orange face framed by a crispy helmet straight out of an 80s sitcom. She quickly looked away and swore to never do that again.

Mouse, being an artist, offered to do her makeup:

You always underdo it, darling. Needs to pop!

He worked on her as if her face were a canvas: step back, peer, step in again. The finished look? Purple-blue eyelids, bronzed cheeks, maroon lips. Anne was mortifiedMouse was thrilled.

She tried hailing a cab but failed miserably.

I swear they think Im a lady of the night, she joked. You try. At least you look like a dodgy agent.

Mouse snorted but stuck out his arm and flagged one in seconds.

The party was in Noras brand new house in Finchleyright at the centre of Londons Armenian community. Everything gleamed: tables, children, music, grannies, caterers. And in the middleNora, positively radiant, even with cold sores dotted round her lips.

It’s all the stress, she wailed, drama queen. I tried so hard

Youre beautiful, always, Anne told her, and she meant it.

Now, looking back at that photoblue dress, orange tan, 80s disaster-hair, Nora with cold sores, and all those bright young facesAnne realises: it felt like a calamity then. But honestly, if she could go back, shed take it allcold sores, patchy tan, the naff hairdojust to have it all again. Her whole life ahead, her friend by her side.

Because, lets face it between thirty and sixty? It was a laugh. What comes next? Who knows. Shes still got her brush, her sense of humour, and now, the fake tans not even necessary.