Hecate Rex: the Crone. Old age is supposed to be when we reach the pinnacle of life, when we awaken to some sort of ultimate wisdom. How cruel it would seem, then, to have reach one's golden years, only to become the object of ridicule, pity, or worse yet, to have become nothing more than a statistical drain on the healthcare system.
But Hecate is not the stereotypical "little old lady" drag. She is like a sad delicate fairy, the Off-White Queen, with a crown made from the vertebrae of rabbits.
She is withered, dried-up, no longer a conduit of energy. She is staid, bound, encaged, inaccessible. She is childlike in some ways, innocent, untouchable, thin-skinned and precious.
She is no longer the penultimate symbols of female power, embodied for example, in the Minoan snake goddess. Hecate's breast are through with giving. in her hands are only the flaccid skins of once-were snakes.
This Virgin Queen wears an Elizabthan farthingale, a cage for her lower half. (Being postmenopausal, anything below her waist is for all intents and purposes, off limits.)