The Bead Collector: False Pearls
St. Louis, 1956
My first beads were pop-beads, a 1950’s fad. I coveted them. And I competed with my girlfriends for the longest strands, draping myself in ropes of luxury. My favorites were pearls.
Then one day a tiny flaw at the hole of one of the pearls led me to pick at it. A strip of pearl-toned paint peeled away. It revealed a bead no more lustrous than skim milk. I was stunned. This was crap.
At the age of eight, I pondered authenticity. I was already a student of quality. When my mother made my clothes, she pointed out how all the seams were finished on the inside and all the loose threads clipped, even though no one would see them. Craftsmanship meant quality and quality meant you didn’t fool children into thinking painted plastic was a pearl. I was outraged for little girls everywhere.
Alienated, I abandoned my stupid collection of beads.
Exposed for phonies, their magic was gone.
Adapted from my memoir Tribe of the Breakaway Beads: Book of Exits and Fresh Starts.
