My mother has never concerned herself with being beautiful.
She is a plain woman who dresses in polo shirts and beige.

My mother can look nice when she wants to, like at Christmas,
when she hangs earrings from her lobes like ornaments.

My mother is guilty of every fashion faux-pas I can think of;
sneakers with corporate wear, extensive polyester, crocs,
not to mention she is a repeat offender of pajama jeans.

Amidst my blushing junior high years,
her very existence was an embarrassment.
I accused her of not caring about her appearance.

Color me envy of other girls and their PTA moms.
They had Brazilian blowouts, milky teeth, trendy
designer purses, manicured claws, stiff tissue faces.

They are always on the phone, daily agendas stacked
with appointments. Their daughters learn bodies as
red-inked quizzes in need of correction.

My mother refuses to wear her old age like an apology.
She tells me, “Beauty is not a lady's responsibility.