Days away from the first episode of Mad Men's final series, 60s beauty devotee and Editor-in-Chief of Time Out New York Terri White looks fondly on the inherent powers of the decade's aesthetic, an effortful look that's seen her through the good times and the bad, and an unholy amount of hairspray

It was a moment that changed everything - one that I quickly realised I couldn’t retreat from, even if I wanted to. At first, my hand was shaky, tentative. I concentrated hard on steadying it as beads of sweat appeared on my furrowed brow. This was serious business, ladies and gents: my very first cat eye.

As I looked in the mirror at my - rather poor, in retrospect - handiwork, I looked different. Not just my face; me. And yet I looked somehow, like me. And with that one wonky, unsure line, I toppled headfirst down the heady rabbit hole of 1960s beauty.

Since that fateful Saturday night, I’ve journeyed through the decade – from the cartoon pin-up girl of the early ‘60s to the wide-eyed mod go-go dancer of the late – and back again. I’ve drawn heavier, thicker lines; built my hair higher and higher (using much of the world’s hairspray supply in the process) and painstakingly strived for the perfect matte no-shine complexion.

It’s a look that draws attention, not all of it welcome, and non-believers have questioned my commitment, persistently and often. The most common enquiries: how long does it take to do your hair? (Ten minutes). Is it all yours? (Don’t be daft). Can I touch it? (Only if you fancy losing your hand). How do you get your eyeliner so straight? (Hours upon hours of practice). Do you go to the supermarket like that? (Hell, yes). What do you look like without all of that? (You’ll never find out, my friend). The inference is clear: that this is at best, superficial and at worst, a conceit.

For me, it’s something much much more. Yes, I enjoy the aesthetic, clearly. Who wouldn’t want to look like Ronnie Spector? But it’s also about singularity and ultimately, a display of strength. Bear with me. 

I wear the same public - and private - face as those who lived through one of the most important decades for women. It was a time of sudden sexual liberation, of struggle against an often stifling vision of domesticity, of baby steps out of the typing pool and into corner offices, of being as important, as valued as men. Take Joan Holloway: starting her journey as seemingly a secretary who flaunts her sexuality in the cut of her high-waisted skirt and tightness of her girdle. Over the years, we‘ve discovered the compelling complexity underneath. And, it turns out; she’d been wearing it on the outside all along.

The perfectly-drawn winged eye, the flushed cheek against pale skin, her tightly pinned up-do and luscious red lip. She’s all at once a mixture of traditional femininity and progressive sexuality, strength and vulnerability, confidence and insecurity, sadness and joy, need and desire. In short: she is woman. As Bobbie Barrett confided: 'No one will tell you this but you can’t be a man. Don’t even try. Be a woman. Powerful business when done correctly.'

And though initially Peggy Olsen appears to be the chalk to her cheese, it’s easy to visually chart her growth in power and potency in a man’s world. A short, no-nonsense modern bob replaces her girlish ponytail and unkempt fringe (Joan’s sage advice: 'You want to be taken seriously? Stop dressing like a little girl'). She becomes a dab hand with a liquid liner, though always sporting an eye that’s a little wobbly – a nod to the fact that she’s too darned busy building her career to get it perfect.

My own appropriation of the aesthetic collided with a time of self-discovery. Like many women, I’d spent my early twenties struggling to work out who the bloody hell I was. There was the year I wore nothing but bootcut jeans, cowboy boots and gold-hooped earrings. I dyed my hair a curious shade of orange (which I insisted was blonde). I drank too much, too often. I rejected make-up. I made terrible choices with men. I woke up with pizza crust in my hair and surprising marks on my skin.

By the time I reached 27, it was clear things needed to change. At least a little. This was the year I fell in love with a man who opened the door to a whole new cultural world I didn’t know existed (having been raised on Rick Astley and The Style Council). The world of girl groups, The Ronettes, The Shangri-Las, Dusty Springfield, The Ikettes, The Supremes. Of Jean Shrimpton, Faye Dunaway and Jane Birkin.

With wide-eyed wonder I drank down their high hair, their mini dresses, their look fuelled by purpose and intent. 

I started that Saturday night with a shaky hand and a picture of Ronnie Spector. I began to back-comb my hair in the mirror – too rough at first and it fell like summer grass in my hand. I tried out countless liquid eyeliners to find the one that wouldn’t come off due to rain or tears (or more recently, the drooping eyes of a 34-year-old). As my look took shape, I felt a more solid identity begin to settle in my gut. You see, I wasn’t hiding who I was but revealing it. Proudly. 

'I don’t think anyone wants to be one of a hundred colours in a box,' once said the very wise Peggy Olsen. The woman’s got a point.