My mother was everything I am not.

She shared Hollywood siren Dorothy Lamour’s first name and her dark glamour and pinup figure. She was one put-together lady who didn’t leave the house without her face on and every hair in place, thanks to weekly appointments at Honey’s in Hawaii Kai. Even by today’s standards she was remarkably stylish. I can picture her leaving for a cocktail party in a little black dress and kitten heels, at church on Easter Sunday in a smart suit, white gloves and pillbox hat, and at the beach in oversized sunglasses and a striped bikini in the colors of Neapolitan ice cream.

She was also a great cook who kept an immaculate home and sewed most of my outfits until arthritis made it too difficult for her to use scissors.

Her daughter was a tomboy who chased grasshoppers and liked to write wild tales and act them out with the Chun girls next door, an unkempt kid who was always bringing home stray cats and injured birds, and once asked for a cowboy hat for Christmas.

Why didn’t you teach me how to curl my hair or shape my brows? How to change a sewing machine bobbin or iron a dress shirt?

Here’s why: Because you were busy providing a loving, secure and complete home that gave me the confidence to explore my unbridled interests, wherever they took me, and grow into an independent, adventurous woman with a family of her own.

A woman who still doesn’t know what to do with her brows.