Here's the truth nobody tells you about footwear — cheap shoes will cheapen even the most expensive outfit. It doesn't matter how beautiful the clothing is. Look down and everything falls apart.

But quality boots? They lift an outfit dramatically. Dramatically. A simple black tee, good pants and an extraordinary pair of Italian leather boots is not a basic outfit. It's a considered, intentional, quietly powerful one.

There's a version of ageing gracefully that involves softening. Feminine florals. Pretty dresses. Pastels. A gradual drift toward what women are supposed to look like once they reach a certain age.

That has never been me.

I was always more tomboy than girly girl. I'm still essentially the nine year old in the school photo — jeans, tee shirt, messy hair. The difference now is that I might have a pair of pointy pink boots on with those jeans. That's about as much as things have changed.

About fifteen years ago, a friend asked if I'd be a hair model for a hairdresser she knew who was doing a trial for a job. Free highlights, a fresh cut — I said yes immediately. Why wouldn't I?

The hairdresser was in her mid to late 20s. As we were chatting, we realised I was the same age as her mum. I was in my mid-40s at the time, and I looked like I was in my mid-30s. Ageing didn't really kick in for me until after menopause. But I could see it happen in real time. The look on her face. The shift in her body language. She had clocked my age and made a decision about me before she'd even picked up the scissors.

The colour was fine. The cut was not great — if I'm honest. I was a little annoyed but I wasn't paying, so I said nothing. And then came the moment that has stayed with me ever since. When her work was being assessed, she smiled and said, proudly: "I gave her an age appropriate cut."

I was horrified. Not just at the cut — at the presumption. She had looked at me, decided what was suitable for a woman of my age, and delivered it without asking me a single thing about who I was, how I dressed, or how I wanted to feel walking out of that salon. Age appropriate. Two words that have followed me around ever since like a bad smell.

Somewhere along the way, the shine dulls. We start dressing like each other. We mute our vibe, blend into the background, and become — dare I say it — generic. And a little bit invisible.

In our 20s and 30s we embraced our own unique style. We were bold, experimental, unapologetically ourselves. Then, often somewhere around menopause, something shifts. We start dressing like our mums. And look — I love our mums. But we are not them.

Here's what I believe: dressing well is a spell. It's self-expression. It's how we tell the world who we are. Leaning into your own unique style is casting a spell that says — hey world, I'm the main character in my own life. And it's about time.