In a tear-jerking poetic tale of romance within the pages of the December-January issue, a Vogue staffer delves into the meaning of his forbidden fascination with these treasures of the deep
Think of the thing you love the most. Now imagine it was considered the worst thing you could possibly possess. My mother has worn pearls almost every day since as long as I can remember. For daily endeavours she would go for classic, cream-toned, 6mm studs. They rarely left her ears. It didn't matter if she was going to a meeting or getting groceries, even the simplest pair of jeans would become suddenly more polished thanks to the white, bright, glimmer that peeked through her dark curls. For special occasions, she would bring out heavier contenders – multicoloured necklace pairings with diamond stones and nacred creations. She appeared in my mind as a Grecian deity; the queen of an undersea kingdom.
Men shouldn’t wear pearls.
I was never a ‘daddy’s boy’. Honestly, I don’t even think my father was a proper ‘father’s son’. I naturally leaned towards my mother when it came to daily activities, counselling and bonding. I loved — and still love — my father, but a boy's bond with his mother is something to which nothing can compare. Still, an idealised little boy is one who delights in playing catch with Dad, and in learning how to shave. That was never me.
