Iris Apfel became a fashion icon in her ninth decade

Her hair was grey, turning steadily to white. So what? Whether in a bob, a bouffant or a pompadour, she liked it that way. Carl, her lovely husband, also liked it that way. Dyeing it was out of the question. Her skin was wrinkled, way beyond what any serum or powder could obscure. But what the heck? Wrinkles were a badge of courage. If God had kindly given her all those years, why hide it? True, Iris Apfel was at the age where you just fell apart, and if you had two of anything, one of them was going to hurt when you woke up in the morning. But for her the cure was simple: after the necessaries, get dressed.