Pearl is not my mother’s real name, but you should know that by now. She loved the little gemstones, so the name feels appropriate. Plus, it’s a nice Easter Egg for my story; those that hurt me might happen upon this veiled ode to my past and are hopefully starting to see glaring similarities. Incidentally, these same intellectual garbage cans once told me I’d amount to nothing. They can choke on this book once they realize it’s about them. But, I digress.
My relationship with Pearl was very complicated, so I’ll start with her physical characteristics. I’m prolonging the tears by taking this approach.
Pearl was 4’11” with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes set against a natural, light olive complexion. Her skin was her only flaw. It bore deep pockmarks from cystic acne in her teens; things like Accutane didn’t hit the market until she was well beyond puberty. The scars were few but deep and sat along her high cheekbones and temples. While she favored her Italian lineage, her sisters all took after their family’s Native American genetics. Nevertheless, all girls had the same dark hair but my mother’s blue eyes were the only set amongst the 6 sisters. Her blue orbs were light and crystal clear, like the shallow end of the ocean, and her iris was encircled by a navy hue I’ll never forget.
My mother’s hair was so black it actually looked blue in certain lights. The contrast of her dark hair and crystalline eyes was striking. Her eyes jumped off of her face because the almond-shaped waterline along her lashes looked black. Pearl never needed eyeliner. Her lashes were thick, long, and dark and her brows were perfectly shaped; it’s as if God graced her with the perfect makeup at birth. To add insult to injury, she never used an eyelash curler because her lashes were already upturned. Pearl’s eyes were her singular biggest asset, and also the most terrifying component of her face. They gave away her emotions, and thus her mental state and stability, long before her mouth or body language. They were either beautiful or terrifying, there was no in between. She could be smiling in a group of people and one piercing glance toward me indicated it would be a bad evening.
Pearl had a side feathered fringe, sort of like Olivia Newton John’s coif, only shorter and less bouffant. She was not one for high maintenance anything, especially hair. Not once did she dye it; the chemicals would have rubbed her ideology the wrong way, and she was hell bent on embracing her individualism. Why hide behind dyes and fake colors when God made each person absolutely perfect? Plus, that shit likely kills animals. When the salt grew into her solid pepper mane, she embraced it with every ounce of her being. She must have started her silver streak in her late 20’s; I was born in the earliest phase of the same decade. From my youngest days, I can remember a white stripe growing down her bangs similar to that on a skunk’s tail. It was perfect, not brassy or yellow, and she maintained it fastidiously. I remember the smell of her hair almost more than anything about her. It smelled exactly how you’d imagine a collision between a citrus fruit truck and a semi carrying cigarettes; slightly sweet with a smoky bite at the end. Sometimes when I’m alone, I can take slow, deep breaths in through my nose and I can almost smell her again. My God, I’d kill for that opportunity one last time. Though, if I’m honest, I’m not sure why.
I don’t ever remember my mother being without her cigarettes. This was the 70’s and she looked the part. Her Marlboros were as much a fashion accessory as they were a habit. She’d rise every morning, pour a black cup of coffee, and light up. Her pour-and-light, coffee-cigarette routine repeated throughout each day as far back as I can remember and up until the last day I saw her in my mid-teens. Pearl was meticulous about the ashtrays she chose for our home. Each one complimented the surrounding decor and was understated. She was never one for flashy or pomp and circumstance. The little bowls were works of art, and she loved them. Forged pieces of gold-colored metal or avocado green blown glass, each with only two divots for cigarettes, never four. Why? Because nobody wants to see a gigantic ashtray around, and if you have more than two smokers sharing a tray, they are standing too close. Get away. To this day, if I see people gathering for a smoke outside, anything more than 2 people feels wrong; in my mind, I can hear her commentary on the insanity of it all. Every night she’d wash them before bed so they would be clean and dry for the next morning because you never know when someone would pop in for a cuppa and smoke. I knew bad times were coming when the ashtray cleanings started spacing out, each slowly piling up with butts and debris. We will get to that later.
I still find it bizarre that she could maintain her teeth and floss like her life depended upon it, yet she smoked like a chimney and drank enough coffee to sink a ship. Her teeth were flawless piano keys and her smile was bright and inviting to all who graced her presence. This was made possible by a well-defined cupid’s bow that was never without lipstick and a top coat of clear gloss. No gaudy colors of lipstick; boldness was reserved for her polish. She was Audrey Hebpburn on the face and Cher on the fingers and toes. Hugely contrasting, paradoxical, and highly irreverent. By gaudy, I mean any color that became an eyesore by adding the frost component. In the Pantone world, she’d have worn Fuzzy Wuzzy Brown, Atomic Tangerine, or Tumbleweed on her keratin tips. And it would have been so frosted by the infusion of mica, the color actually looked the same regardless of the bottle she used.
Pearl maintained her pedicured feet religiously. Her second toe was longer than her first, and she once told me it was the mark of a smart person. She called it the wisdom toe. When I look down, I’m fondly reminded of her. Pearl gave me her feet, only mine are an 8.5 and hers were a 5.5. Her hands were petite, ring sized 6, and her fingers seemed long in comparison. Like her toes, her hands were well cared for. Cuticle cream was a staple in our home, and she used it religiously. She wore little jewelry, an understated Timex watch with an oval face. Only her engagement and wedding rings on her left hand; her right had an opal ring from her mother, a woman who died three years before my birth by overdosing on alcohol and barbiturates. I’ve never received verification if her untimely departure at a youthful 49 years old was intentional or not. We didn’t speak of these things in my home. When I did ask, a different, and very unkind version of Pearl would remind me to never ask such questions.
Her figure would be perfect by today’s standards, though she would hate that. Pearl was not one for conformity. She had an hourglass figure naturally, small breasts that measured 34B, and a “bubbled rear end” that was “perfectly round.” Pearl outwardly embraced the “husk” that carried her around, and it was sized a perfect 10. Muscular thighs and calves defined her short stature, and when combined with a small waist, it meant that she rarely wore jeans. She hated that they never fit properly. Girls with curves weren’t embraced in those days. Though she didn’t dress like June Cleaver, or whomever the popular TV housewife was in the 70’s, she also wasn’t on the fringe of fashion or pushing modernity. Her attire was predominately dark color schemes, with few patterns, and a pop of color.
She worked tirelessly on her tan. Back in the days of lemon juice for hair, which Pearl refused to use, she embraced a sun-kissed glow. Religiously. She had a bronze, shiny, string bikini, with triangles that barely covered ½ of each breast, and she covered herself in Crisco. Yes, Crisco. Then laid out on an aluminum foil wrapped lounge chair. For hours, flipping every 20 minutes. I remember one summer Pearl had to use Wesson vegetable oil because we had no Crisco on hand. She stayed with it because it “was more natural and better for the skin.” Dermatologists the world over are likely cringing reading about Pearl’s sunny routine.
More Pearl coming soon…
