I’m pretty much o.k. with
looking my age, whatever that means. I don’t dye my hair or have bits of my
anatomy surgically lifted, but I do try, whenever possible, to avoid decking
myself out in the emblems of past eras, such as bubble hairdos, pillbox hats,
and cadaverously pale lipstick.
In the mid-twentieth century,
as we girls reached puberty we were given a series of objects that marked our progress
towards womanhood: first pair of heels, first girdle, first razor, first strand
of pearls. The pearls—real, cultured, or artificial-- were usually gifts from parents
or grandparents, a single strand to encircle our youthful necks on special occasions.
My generation didn’t get much
use out of our pearls. By the mid-sixties, “serious” jewelry had given way to ethnic
and artisanal adornments. We wore chandelier-like earrings that hung down to
our clavicles, paper mache bracelets, and bizarre beads and amulets in lieu of pearls.
I still have my pearls. They sleep in a box, wrapped like mummies in a lace doily crocheted by my father’s mother.
Sometimes I take them out and look at them. Almost certainly man-made, the pearls
are a mellow ivory color, and they have kept their looks over the decades,
without peeling or losing their luster. They feel heavy in my hand and, on the
rare occasions when I put them on, pleasantly cool on my skin.
I like pearls. They go with
everything. They are almost alive, “breathing” air and moisture and changing
color with the years and the wearer’s chemistry. The better kind of artificial pearls
get their luster from a concoction of fish scales slathered on a glass sphere,
so they react to their environment in much the same way as their oyster-made
cousins.
In Colette’s novel, Chéri,
the courtesan Léa wears her magnificent “rope” of rosy pearls to bed with her
lover. If I lived on a desert
island, I too would wear my little strand round the clock. But I live in Vermont,
where, for good reason, the atmosphere is ultra casual. It’s hard to dress in fancy clothes when you’re trudging
through snow drifts in winter and deep mud in spring. In the all-too-short
summer, Vermonters are frantically growing veggies in their gardens, and can’t
be bothered to dress up.
The Green Mountain State,
however, is nothing if not accepting of quirks and fancies of all kinds. You can
wear an organza shift with your rubber boots to town meeting and nobody will
bat an eye, so why don’t I wear my pearls? Sheer
vanity is why. I’m afraid that they might be one of those markers of bygone eras,
like the teased hair of the sixties or the pillow-sized shoulder pads of the
eighties, that will telegraph my elderly status before I’ve had a
chance to impress my audience with how relatively non-elderly I am.
It’s vanity on the same
spectrum as hair rinses and eyelid tweaks. But at least the people who undergo
these procedures are exchanging something they don’t like (gray hair and droopy
eyelids) for something that they like better. I, on the other hand, am denying myself
something I enjoy in order to avoid looking like Queen Elizabeth.
Given what I’ve seen on TV in
recent weeks, however, looking like the Queen, who wears her near-century with pride, would be
infinitely preferable to looking like my fellow septuagenarian, the man with
the orange face.
 |
| Senior prom, 1962 |
