My mother was a beautiful woman, in every way. Heads turned when she passed. She had a rare and wonderful combination of stately elegance and childlike naivety.
When she turned 62 my brother and I threw a surprise birthday party for her. The invitation I designed was a simple line drawing caricature of my mother, depicting her two outstanding features: large almond shaped eyes which she accentuated with long, black, false eyelashes, and big blonde hair swept behind her left ear, and into a deep wave above her right eyebrow. It was flattering to the shape of her face and had been a glamorous and popular hair style in the 1940’s, ala Veronica Lake. But, in the 1980’s it was extremely out dated.
While my mother was very fashion conscious and dressed impeccably, nobody could convince her to change her hair style, so it became her signature. Being the exquisite icon she was, she was able to carry it off elegantly.
My mother loved the sun and circled the world four times with a goal of getting a tan on every continent. And when, Heaven forbid, she couldn’t get away from the harsh New Jersey winters, she would sit in her back yard, in a beach chair, under layers of heavy blankets, with an aluminum reflector tilted to catch and intensify the sun’s rays that were aimed directly at her face.
When she wasn’t on some tropical island, my mother enjoyed the Jersey shore where she would walk down to the sea’s edge, bend over and gently splashed water over her legs, arms and chest. But never, and I stress never, would my mother allow her hair to get wet. I never understood why she bothered being so careful because her hair was so heavily lacquered I’m convinced it was impervious to all forms of moisture. But, she chose not to take that chance.
One steamy day as we lay basking in the sun at a posh Florida resort she spotted a woman in the pool, standing in water that came midway between her elbows and her shoulders. My mother, who by now was in desperate need of a dunk, stood up from her chaise lounge and approached the woman.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but the water doesn’t look terribly deep here. Are you touching the bottom?”
“Oh, yes, I’m standing here with no trouble,” the woman assured her. Then she smiled and swam away.
Anxious to cool off, my mother sat on the edge of the pool, and slowly and cautiously slipped her body into the water where she proceeded to drop down, down, down into the water — well over her head.
I, who had been relaxing in a chair along side hers, jumped up and watched in horror as she gasped and thrashed her arms wildly. When she returned to the surface I couldn’t help notice her lacquered bouffant. It was dripping wet, and drooped limply over to one side but — as I always knew would happen — it held its original shape.
Mother dragged herself up the ladder, and I’m quite certain I saw flames of rage shoot from her nostrils as she plopped down into her lounge chair and quickly wrapped her unsightly head in a beach towel. This was a woman who had never allowed anyone, even her husband, to see her without perfectly coifed hair.
I could hear her hyperventilating as her eyes narrowed and scanned the pool for the “Bitch” who had deceived her.
And then she spotted the woman walking in our direction.
As she came closer my mother prepared to stand and lash out at her, but suddenly it all made sense. The woman was every bit of six and a half feet tall. My mother was five foot four.
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