I've always maintained that there is a very fine line between a daring, sexy older woman and mutton dressed as lamb.

I have a lot of male friends.

When I finish dressing before a night out and have put on all the accessories, I usually look at myself in the mirror long and hard and then end up removing something. Whether it's a belt, bracelet or a bauble, less is always more.

I never thought I was particularly good looking. But when I see old photographs, I realise that I was. I do wish I had known that at the time because beauty is power. I didn't realise how lucky I was to be young, beautiful and in Hollywood. It didn't hit me. Every day I woke up, went to the film studio and just got on with it.

Hair, in fact, is probably the bane of most women's lives.

Every time an article is written about me or any of my contemporaries who's had the fortune and discipline to look good at a certain age, I am struck by the tone of astonishment, and the certainty that something is being done secretively to beat the devil.

We live in a quick-fix society where we need instant gratification for everything. Too fat? Get lipo-sucked. Stringy hair? Glue on extensions. Wrinkles and lines? Head to the beauty shop for a pot of the latest miracle skin stuff. It's all a beautiful £1 billion con foisted upon insecure women by canny cosmetic conglomerates.