My personal style evolution didn’t happen overnight. Somewhere in the archives of my family photo albums—wedged between prom snapshots, Christmas mornings, and early mom moments—is a girl in a plaid pantsuit and wide-brimmed hat, standing confidently in front of a brick fireplace.
That girl was me. And while the shoulder pads have softened and the silhouettes have matured, one thing hasn’t changed: my belief that style is a form of self-expression—and self-respect.
This post is part of my Life After Style series, where I reflect on the moments that shaped me, both in fashion and in life. But this one’s different. Because alongside the outfits, I want to share the story I’ve been writing in the background—literally.
How a Book Became a Blog
I started Style at a Certain Age because I needed a place to talk about my book: (In)Sincere Motives, a romantic suspense novel about an actress, an art heist, and a complicated love story. But back in 2015, blogging wasn’t as user-friendly as it is now. I had to learn WordPress, figure out YouTube, and make peace with the camera. Let me tell you, I was on a steep learning curve for years!
Then something unexpected happened: people cared more about what I was wearing than what I was writing.
My outfit-of-the-day posts started gaining traction—and suddenly, I had a community of women asking for more: more classic style, more beauty tips, more life recommendations. So, at my oldest son’s advice, I set the book aside… for a while. Who knew it would take ten years to swing back around?!
But here’s the plot twist: I finished that book. And now I’m querying literary agents in hopes that it finds its place on bookshelves next to the shoes I still can’t part with.
A Sneak Peek at My Novel, (In)Sincere Motives
When I launched Style at a Certain Age, I thought I was building a platform to share my novel. Instead, I found a thriving community of women hungry for more than style—they wanted substance, too.
Now that the manuscript is finished and I’m querying literary agents, I’d love to give you a first look at the story that started it all. Meet Reggie Cavanaugh—actress, daughter of a disgraced art forger, and the last person who wanted to get caught in an international scandal.
Here’s how her story begins…
Tuesday, Midnight, Paris, France (Prologue)
A low hum sliced through the sleeping Paris night. A motorboat glided along the Seine. Crickets chirped. A bullfrog croaked—and fell silent. Aboard the boat, four men in black turtlenecks and ski caps huddled around a glowing laptop. Blue and white lines traced the floor plan of a familiar Parisian landmark.
“Entry’s here,” the leader said, tapping the screen. “If the alarm trips, we’ve got five minutes—max.”
Nods all around. Faces smeared in black, unreadable. The leader glanced up. Cloudless sky. Scattered stars. A full moon casting silver across the rippling water.
“No night vision. No gadgets. Just us,” he said, snapping the laptop shut. “We’re ghosts tonight.”
The motor cut. The boat drifted beneath a stone bridge. A rope sailed, caught. The hull bumped the quay. One by one, they scaled the fence—silent shadows as the distant bells of Paris struck midnight.
They crossed Voie Express Rive Gauche. A taxi rolled by. When the coast cleared, they slipped up a narrow staircase. At the top: their target—the Musée d’Orsay, glowing like a stage set. The neoclassical façade rose silent and imposing, banners overhead snapping in the wind, bold white letters stark against the night.
They moved along the building’s edge, past the bronze horse statue. At the east wing, they reached their mark. One clipped the security grille. Another scored the glass with a cutter, lifted the pane, and slipped inside. The rest followed—phantoms through the frame.
Inside, the vast space yawned open: glass-and-steel arches stretched overhead, moonlight striping the marble floor. Security cameras panned, but the men ducked them with expert ease. Up parquet stairs, soundless.
Monet. Degas. Renoir. The masters lined the walls, but the thieves didn’t pause. Four paintings were stripped from their frames and rolled tight. Three were strapped to backs. One—the final, smallest—was carried separately.
Near the exit, a flashlight beam slashed the dark.
“N’a pas bougé!” a guard barked, gun raised.
The thieves bolted.
A shot rang out—missed. Then another. A third. One thief hurled a ninja star. It whistled past the guard’s ear. He ducked, surged forward—then stopped.
The smallest painting—the one carried separately—lay abandoned at his feet.
The rest were gone.
Back at the boat, the leader adjusted his headset. One ring. Then another.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Degas, please.”
“Looking for Edgar?”
“That’s right.”
“Hold.”
A pause. Then a new voice—low, cold.
“Yes?”
“Operation Priceless is in motion, sir.”
Childhood Style: Velvet, Gingham, and Big Bows
Christmas Style Spark
Even as a kindergartener, I understood the magic of presentation. A red velvet jumper, a perfectly trimmed tree, and a stack of presents almost as tall as I was.
Sunday Best in a Sailor Coat
With a white hat, matching socks, and a serious purse, I was ready for church—or brunch—or both. Accessories were my first love language.
The Style Scout Years
There’s a photo of me in gingham, binoculars around my neck, standing next to my cousin. My curiosity was already fierce—just like my early fashion instincts.
Teen Style – Loud Prints and Louder Dreams
The Plaid Suit Moment
Yes, I wore a bold plaid suit and floppy hat to high school. Yes, on purpose. And no, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Prom Night
This is one of my most cherished photos: me in my prom dress, clutching a bouquet of daisies, and my dad—always dapper in a cardigan—by my side. The dress was soft, simple, and sweet, but what I remember most was how proud he looked. That moment taught me that fashion is more than fabric—it’s memory.
The Mom Years – A Personal Style Evolution in Motion—And the Man Behind the Blog
My days as a young mom were filled with strollers, striped shirts, splashy vacations, and school drop-offs. There were very few moments of silence—but always, somehow, a cinched waist, a coordinating belt, or at least a tucked-in blouse. That was my armor—and my art. Those years weren’t just about diapers and carpool lanes—they were a defining chapter in my personal style evolution.
But behind the camera, cheering me on, was my husband of 35 years—Siamak, affectionately known on the blog as Mr. Style.
He was the steady hand and the quiet strength behind Style at a Certain Age.
He took the photos. He made me laugh. He encouraged me to start the blog long before “content creator” was even a thing.
We lost him in 2019. But his imprint is everywhere—from the structure of this blog to the confidence I carry into every post.
Style Abroad – Vietnam, Adaptability, and Discovery
Living overseas reshaped more than just my perspective—it reshaped my closet. Fashion became practical, portable, and deeply personal.
Launching the Blog – From Rolled Jeans to Zebra Trench
When I launched Style at a Certain Age, I had no grand plan—just a desire to connect. At first, it was about promoting the novel I’d been working on. But those early outfit-of-the-day posts? They caught fire.
I was 56, newly navigating WordPress, figuring out how to upload a YouTube thumbnail, and wondering whether anyone cared what a woman over 50 wore to the grocery store.
Turns out? They did.
And Mr. Style—my husband and the original blog photographer—was right there beside me, camera in hand, cheering me on.
These were the outfits that launched a thousand posts: a striped hoodie layered over plaid, a pink sweater snapped mid-selfie, and yes—a zebra-print trench coat paired with pearls, just because I could. And we can’t forget about Oscar. He’s been with me from the beginning!
Those early outfit-of-the-day posts were the beginning of a personal style evolution I didn’t see coming.
The blog has grown with me over the years—and so has the team. My daughter-in-law Kelly has officially joined Style at a Certain Age as our Petite Style Editor and Resident Chef, sharing delicious recipes, kitchen wisdom, and petite fashion that proves style isn’t one-size-fits-all. Petite? Yes. You Can Wear Bold Prints.
And every Saturday, Jennifer takes the reins as our Beauty Editor, curating product reviews, skincare tips, and beauty advice that speaks to women of every age and stage. The Glow Game: How to Layer Your Makeup for Radiant Summer Skin
And now, you’ll also find afternoon posts dedicated to all things life well-lived—from health and wellness to home decor, fitness, and more. Because style extends far beyond your closet doors.
Together, we’re building a vibrant, ageless lifestyle brand—for women who know that getting better with age isn’t a myth. It’s a movement.
🎥 Watch the Story:
Now – Bebe, Blogger, and Book in Progress
Today, my personal style evolution includes not just fashion, but food, beauty, wellness, and even dating again at sixty-six. These days, my style is less about trend-chasing and more about truth-telling. A zebra trench coat? Why not. Pearls at the grocery store? Absolutely.
But the greatest evolution of all? Becoming Bebe—a title I now wear with the same pride I once reserved for tailored jackets and fresh lipstick.
I’m still blogging, still filming, and still showing up. But I’m also writing—reclaiming the novel that sparked this entire journey. (In)Sincere Motives is finished, and I’m currently querying agents, fingers crossed it finds the home it deserves.
This chapter feels different. It’s softer around the edges, but stronger at the core. I’m not just dressing for the camera. I’m dressing for playground visits, book signings (manifest it), and the life I’ve built—with grit, grace, and a touch of edge.
“At 66, I’m a Bebe, a blogger, and an author in progress. And yes—I still believe the right outfit can change your day.”
What I’ve Learned About Style—and Life
- You define what’s flattering
- Timeless beats trendy
- The best accessory is a life well-lived
Style isn’t about impressing others—it’s about expressing yourself, evolving with every phase, and learning to dress the version of you that shows up today.
What I’d Tell Her Now
To the girl in the plaid pantsuit: You were already brave.
To the young mom with spit-up on her blouse: You were stunning.
To the woman I am now: You’ve earned every wrinkle, every laugh line, every bold outfit.
Life after style isn’t about giving anything up. It’s about gaining the wisdom to wear exactly what you want.
About The Author
