There is a phenomenon I've dubbed the Missie-Mama-Morph (sometimes seen in wealthier slices of Southern society) where a young woman, having married (and perhaps had her first child), suddenly transforms into her mother's stylistic-doppleganger.* One imagines that she woke up some morning, opened her door, and found a mob of highly polished matrons politely chanting, "One of us. One of us. One of us." as they bound and gagged her and whisked her off to the stylist they all share. ("You'll love her! She does wonderful things with color...")
The long, natural hair is cropped, coiffed, and dyed into a uniform, blond, helmet-like bob. The make-up thickens. Hoops and pendants are replaced with diamond or pearl studs. The attire turns moneyed casual—Ann Taylor or high-end exercise wear. And voila! A twenty-eight year old woman suddenly looks forty-eight.
It's kind of creepy.
* Though my focus here is on the ladies, there is a male analog: the guy a few years out of college doing his best to look and act like a middle-aged banker. But I haven't figured out the snappy catch-phrase. (Pissie-Papa-Porph doesn't quite work.)