By Caroline Hatchett
In the Met’s current Costume Institute exhibition, Costume Art, the museum pairs works from its permanent collection with clothing as commentary on the dressed human form. Within the new Condé M. Nast Galleries, the show is subdivided by body types as social construct: the naked and nude body; the classical body of Greco-Roman antiquity; the abstract body (enter the age of hoops and corsets); the corpulent, the disabled, and the mortal body, etc.
On a recent visit, I passed a “pubikini” installed above a nude Egyptian statuette, a George Seurat Seine scene next to a Victorian bustle, and a fringed dress adorned with viscera and juxtaposed with a medical etching. In a rear gallery, on an aisle dedicated to the aging body, George Luk’s “The Old Duchess” hung next to a mannequin wearing a taffeta skirt and a sweater in cream and black with the word HAG written in all caps across the chest. I stood in front of the ensemble, designed by Batsheva Hay, and looked into a polished steel mirror placed on the mannequin’s face. In my reflection, I saw the indomitable spirit of the hag. I had seen her before.
There’s a picture of me from 2010. I’m 27 and wearing a form-hugging bridesmaid dress in midnight blue. Mid dance move, with a Heineken in hand, my head is slung back in reverie. You can see the outline of my quads. I’ve joked for a long time that the photo captured the very moment my physical body peaked and that I’ve been in slow decline ever since.
In the intervening years, I have herniated two discs and started growing sprigs of white hair. Spider veins web my upper thighs. My mid-section has softened. I take maintenance medications for high blood pressure and vaginal dryness, and I have received the most insulting of diagnoses: a fatty umbilical hernia.
But something else happened too. I developed a confident, somewhat kooky style heavy on color and billowing silhouettes; vintage statement pieces; and housedresses in lieu of athleisure. If I could not be hot — because what effort that would take — I would build a wardrobe that projected experience, taste, and joy. Hag!
I hear you. Wasn’t it enough to reclaim bitch? Must we also tether ourselves to this sordid word and the bitter indignities of old age? Yes, I think we must.
Ancient hags of Gaelic and Celtic mythology were fearsome Earth goddesses who controlled the seasons, had their own cults, and could use their powers for good or evil. The arrival of Christianity diminished the influence of these wrinkled, weathered, and divine hags, and by the 11th century, hag was synonymous with witchcraft and devilry. The patriarchy kept diluting the word until it mostly meant ugly and old, but the hag never fully lost her power.
It’s time to summon it, ladies, especially in this moment of ageist beauty standards, a relentless push for self optimization, and a renewed obsession with thinness.
To be a hag is to opt out of those anxieties — to be wizened and unruly and demonstrate vitality despite decay. Hags don’t chase trends. They’re not victims of the algorithm, nor do they worship the false god of youth.
To be clear, hags can be vain. I lift weights. I dab a ferulic acid serum onto my face every morning. I wear makeup. I keratin my bob into straight submission. But I also know there’s no evading perimenopause (#nightsweats) nor erasing those elusive extra five pounds. Hag, as an idea, is helping me navigate a life and body in transition.
I’m that other kind of hag too, a woman surrounded by gay men. I suspect that may have eased my transition into middle-aged hagdom and why I’ve never bristled at the word. When your male friends encourage caftan purchases and send group texts about your heiress vibes (more Princess Margaret, less Paris Hilton), you grow accustomed to platonic validation. (Thanks, boys!)
Hag is my armor. It’s how I choose to present myself — command presence — in a world conditioned to discount and ignore older women. Clothes are part of that. I wear outfits that make me feel great and share some of my interiority. I stock my closet with confrontation, comfy, and conversation pieces: a gold brocade kimono woven with moody black storm clouds, a 1970s silk roman tunic, a cut-off T-shirt featuring a mayonnaise jar that I wear to the gym instead of matching Alo.
I’m not the first woman to embrace this tactic. Instagram runneth over with mature fashion influencers such as Tessie Singson, Judith Boyd, Linda Rodin, Paula Fontana, and Margaret Chola. “Fashion is better than plastic surgery,” Marilyn Kirschner, a longtime fashion editor, told advancedstyle.
I don’t know if these women identify as hags. But their style announces, rather than renounces, their age and ungovernability.
I also own the Hag sweater, the one on display at the Met. In 2024, Hay cast models 40 and older for her New York Fashion Week show and incorporated ideas around aging into her designs. She used droopy fabrics and rumpled ruching. She asked a friend who hand-knits sweaters to make one stitched with the word hag.
“It sort of felt, the way it’s knit, like a ’90s Riot Grrrl reclaiming of the word,” says Hay, who also identifies as a hag. “I’ve always felt like a freak — whatever the equivalent [of a hag] is at 15, 25, and 35. I don’t think there’s a name for it at those ages. But it’s about a certain disregard, not caring what people think. When you do that and you’re not young anymore, you’re a hag.”
A few days after her 2024 show, Hay posted a pre-order tease for the hag sweater on Instagram. I had never stalked a drop so hard. For four days, I had the Batsheva site in a tab at the ready to refresh again and again. Finally, I spotted the link in new arrivals, before Hay’s team had even uploaded a photo of the garment. I added it to my cart, to my closet. It was official. I was a hag. And what a relief.