On Ornamentation
Beth Richards
Ornamentation. (n.): The act or process of being ornamental; an accessory, article, or detail used to beautify the appearance.
1
Let me begin by profiling myself: I’m middle aged only if my DNA lets me live to 130. Small frame. Mostly proportional height and weight, though I do notice a schlumpiness in certain body parts that I won’t elaborate on here. I adore sweatpants. I do not own one smudge of makeup though I do apply SPF-50 sunscreen for about two weeks after the dermatologist yells at me.
2
Nevertheless. Atop the bookcase next to my bed, you will find a large jewelry box that contains:
- A menagerie of earrings: turquoise bears, opal dolphins, silver hummingbirds. Fake pearls (no oysters were harmed). Small but real diamond chips, glass bead dangle thingies, and geometric fantasicals I won’t even try to describe. Total: twenty-seven pairs.
- Fifteen bracelets: silver twists, silver and gold twists, silver loop, charm, colored glass, one that says, “Do what you love,” and another that says, “Hope, Hope, Hope.”
- Five necklaces: rough jade orbs from Afghanistan, more pearls, blue-gray beads, a puzzle piece (my partner has the other half), a thin braided gold thread.
3
The box that holds my collection of ornamental stuff is itself a thing of beauty. From the side, it looks like a large, metal book. The two halves yawn open and lie flat. Inside, on the bottom half, three stacked boxes rise and open like a scissor lift. A long, removable dowel skewers the bracelets, which tumble and slide along its length. On the box’s outside, mosaic tiles converge to form a ruby, orange, blue, and silver peacock with a red glass eye.
4
I grew up in the Deep South, in a church that emphasized modesty, which meant wearing everything that let everyone know you were a godly woman and not wearing anything that made anyone think you were a floozy. Wearing a lot of jewelry or makeup or dresses that hugged womanly curves put you in the latter category. Even though I knew, early on, that I was likely to fail the eternal godliness test, I promised myself that I would never own any makeup or jewelry.
5
Clearly, I’ve failed to fulfill at least part of that promise because the box also has:
- Four lapel pins: abalone dolphin, opal kiwi (the bird, not the fruit), Art Deco mouse, butterfly
- Two rings. A synthetic pink sapphire that my mother’s father gave her when she was sixteen, and that she, a few years ago, gave to me. She once asked me to “research that Google guy” to see if the stone is worth anything. It’s not. Ring two: a delicate gold scroll, made from my parents’ wedding bands. I don’t need the Google guy to tell me what it’s worth.
6
Despite all this jeweled wealth, I wear only my wedding ring and a Timex watch (medium blue, washable cloth band). I used to wear small hoop earrings that I changed about twice a year, but I had to take them out when I had surgery; I didn’t put them back on afterwards.
7
The peacock jewelry box was a gift from the wife of a man I worked with briefly in India. She provided a glorious break from the project’s 99% male staff, tutored me in New Delhi street food, and rescued me from a highly focused salesperson in a sari shop.
When I open the box, it’s always a surprise. I forget what’s in there until I see it again. The box’s lining: a short-nap, mauve cloth that smells, ever so faintly, of dust and tamarind.
When I open the box, it’s always a surprise. I forget what’s in there until I see it again. The box’s lining: a short-nap, mauve cloth that smells, ever so faintly, of dust and tamarind.
8
Every morning, after I shower, I put on my breast prosthesis. I don’t consider it ornamental, though I guess it is, since it is a detail used to beautify—or at least modify—my appearance, filling the gap where my breast used to be so that I look more-or-less symmetrical. Did I think of my breasts as ornaments, back when they came, like earrings, as a matched set?
9
My jewelry box once contained my grandmother’s engagement ring; I wore it for a long time after she died, until it fell off while I was running. A few years after that, I got married, though selecting my own simple wedding band wasn’t easy.
My wife-to-be: This one looks nice!
Me: It’s too fancy/shiny/bumpy/gold/silver/round.
My wife-to-be: This one looks nice!
Me: It’s too fancy/shiny/bumpy/gold/silver/round.
10
Why do I have so many pieces of jewelry? People give them to me. I am not sure why. I identify as female and lesbian, and I have never been girly or femme, even when wearing a Laura Ashley bridesmaid dress that made me look like a (slightly butch) fringed lampshade. I have one pink shirt that I seldom wear but keep in my closet so that if someone asks, “Do you own anything pastel?” I can reply, “Well, of course I do, you silly.”
11
To be honest, I don’t really want all the ornaments, and I’m sure I’ll remain consistent about not wearing them, but I’ll keep them all, and the box, even though it takes up a lot of room and the peacock collects an alarming amount of dust. I remember the Art Deco mouse, peeking over the edge of my “Happy 8th Birthday!” card. I remember the pearl earrings in my mother’s ears, an anniversary gift from my father a few weeks before he died. I remember the tall, stooped shopkeeper in Afghanistan, draping the linked jade over his gnarled hands.
12
All of the earrings are for pierced ears, by the way, a leap I took in actual middle age. I researched (ear cartilage, vascular supply, infection, 18k vs. 24k gold). I vacillated. Maybe I waited that long because people insisted that getting ears pierced was “a breeze” before adding that the ear technician used “a gun.” When I finally did get my ears pierced, I told the tech that for years I had imagined being lined up in the sights of a gizmo the size of a rocket launcher.
She laughed. “No wonder you put it off,” then showed me her ear-piercing gun, which fit neatly in the palm of her hand.
She laughed. “No wonder you put it off,” then showed me her ear-piercing gun, which fit neatly in the palm of her hand.
13
The current ornamental details of my life are these: I check that my clothes are more or less in the same color family, and I comb my hair. After that, one final adjustment to the prosthesis: When I first put it on, it’s cold from hanging out in a drawer all night and doesn’t conform to my rib cage. But after we snuggle a bit, it becomes less an accessory and more a part of beautified me.
One day, maybe I’ll start wearing the earrings again. Maybe.
One day, maybe I’ll start wearing the earrings again. Maybe.
Beth Richards’ work has appeared in Fourth Genre (Editor’s Prize), Solstice Literary Magazine, Talking Writing, The Sun (Readers Write), The Cincinnati Review (Schiff Prize), and Twin Flame Literary; in three anthologies: Coming Out in the South, Into Sanity, and The Masters Review; and in Michael Steinberg’s blog (#84, “Stories and Stars”). She earned an MFA from the Solstice MFA in Creative Writing Program at Lasell University.