Vicky Zubiri: Glam mom
In our old house back when I was small, her bathroom was the most wondrous place in the world. Very Dynasty; very ‘80s. Everything was marble, wall-to-wall closets with mirrored sliding doors. Behind these doors were mountains of sequins, paillettes, beads, fringes, feathers, lace. There was Yves Saint Laurent, Dior, Lanvin, Emanuel Ungaro, all vintage from the 1970s heyday. All gorgeous, all Studio 54. In the middle was a black bathtub atop marble steps. There was mood lighting that reflected prettily off the glass and brass shelving. There were figurines of birds and a heart-shaped pink fabric-covered box that held all sorts of paraphernalia for hair, including a black lace hairpiece that I adored for its sheer drama. Near the sink was a glass that held gold toothbrushes. Yes, her toothbrush was gold. The toilet was a black throne on top of which a gorgeous blown-up photo of my mother hung on the glossy marble wall. Diana Ross hair, bold eye makeup, bare torso and glittering diamonds. She was 35 years old and stunning. On the dressing table sat a Chinese painted vase converted into a lamp with an incandescent light bulb that gave off the softest light. Rows and rows of lipsticks stood upright like little soldiers ready for action. Long brushes were laid out like a painter’s preferred arms and little boxes of eye shadow were piled up like ammunition. This was the “war room,” where every day she put on her game face, strategized what outfits to wear as she set off to conquer the world, one charming smile and witty remark at a time.
My mother is the quintessential glamour girl. She goes to sleep Cleopatra- and geisha-style, flat on her back, arms crossed in front to avoid wrinkles. She scolds me whenever I sleep smooshed facedown on my pillow, hunched over in the fetus position. “Sige ka you’ll get wrinkles.” As 26 turns to 27 and 27 slowly turns to 30, I find myself sleeping more and more Cleopatra-style because of that ringing voice in my head. She also sleeps quite often with her whole head set in curlers. She deftly puts them on in a jiffy. Each one rolled perfectly tight. It’s a job better done than most salons I’ve been to! She sleeps this way to wake up to a head of bouncy curls, which are then teased and combed to perfection. She can’t live without hairspray and she hates being bakulaw. Not one hair should fall on her face. On a low day, she still looks much better than anyone else and better than most people on even their high days! Let’s not even mention that figure. My mother wears the same size as I do… and for pants, sometimes she’s an even smaller size. Part of the reason why I try to exercise all the food weight off is so I can still wear all her beautiful clothes.
She’s a complex woman, childish yet uncannily wise at times, friendly and outspoken yet private and family oriented. She can be very discerning then turn around and be extremely generous in her own way. She’s seen the world and she’s lived it. No easy task being a young mother of four in the crazy ‘70s era, managing a successful clothing and couture business in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Plus, in later years, struggling with cervical cancer and a brain tumor that led to two delicate surgeries, one of which damaged seven nerves around her eye. She goes through the day with a searing pressure and pain in her head and double vision. Yet she manages to keep that joie de vivre, keeps on putting on curlers, the best outfits, red lipstick and a big smile. She can sincerely have fun and forget all that has happened.
I can’t. I remember how my heart sank when I received that phone call. I dropped everything and went to the United States immediately. I was scared but had to be strong. We were all scared. I prayed hard. As the nurses rolled her away to the operating room, she called me over, clearly enjoying the soft anesthetic high. With a smile she handed me her Estee Lauder eight-hour lip balm and said, “Please tell the nurse to put this on while they operate. I don’t want my lips to get dry.” At that moment, I knew she would be all right. She was. One month after brain surgery, we went to St. Tropez and danced at Nikki Beach together.
The second surgery didn’t go as well and has been quite a burden. Apart from constant pain,
the damaged optic nerves from the last operation also affected her eye. For such a beautiful woman it was a real blow. And while we all tell her it is much better, no longer swollen and much straighter, she continues to camouflage herself with a bevy of designer-graded sunglasses. It’s become her trademark, so much so that when she sends a text message her smiley faces aren’t :) or =). Hers are B). It makes me laugh every time.
For any beautiful woman, age can be frightening; and yet slowly she’s found other ways to channel her beauty as she transitions on. She paints watercolors beautifully and her first exhibit was sold out on opening night and part of the proceeds went to charity. She has also been active in the music scene, promoting Filipino artists and classical music in Southern Manila through the Filfest Cultural Foundation. The music is better than Vicodin, she says. And for all those who know her, so is champagne.
We have fights. Oh yes, big ones. Big screaming gems! The things that can come out of her mouth in moments of anger are almost hilarious. (She once said she’d buy my company.) But I think all our mothers drive us crazy. It’s somewhat their duty and purpose to; and yet we learn to love them entirely for who they are. Despite all those strange idiosyncrasies I can’t understand — such as her constantly telling me to bear this motto in mind at all times: “When I walk in a room, I tell myself ‘I’m Miss Universe.’”; and the strange way she likes to use a half-used Kleenex box as a weapon or say she’ll buy everything when she’s angry — I love my mother to bits. When I’m sick there’s that mixed-up scent of creams, eight-hour creams and hairspray residue that I want to snuggle up to and, to be honest, it’s difficult to replace that. As we traveled together and enjoyed our time in Paris, going from operas to young, hidden, hip and trendy bars, I realized that she is getting a bit more fragile, and every moment spent laughing together is so special. And even if her crazy habit of waking up two and a half hours early just to put on curlers and makeup to go to the grocery store makes me go bananas, I promise that the day she can’t do it herself, I will wake up two and a half hours early to put them on for her, and make sure to add a sparkle of champagne in her morning orange juice just to help all those medicines and vitamin pills go down with style.
