Hair

Born bald, so I am told, and it took a long time for any hair to grow. Bonnets in pink frills covering my bare pate did not stop people from telling my mother what a cute little boy she had. Thin, stringy brown easily tangled, fine and flyaway stuff covered my head as a small girl (oft assumed to be a small boy.) I do remember my first haircut, in a carousel horse barber chair. I was very still. I had the feeling that the man who cut my hair was half expecting me to throw a tantrum. But I knew about seeing the doctor, and being brave, and I knew cutting my hair would not hurt like a shot. I had at some point taken scissors to it myself. I liked cutting things, and that cutting other people's things was bad, but my hair was mine, so I figured I was safe. My mother figured differently. Dramatically so.

My mother had her own issues about hair. Hers was red, straight naturally and coarse. She permed it and had it in rollers at night, and hated the color. Her parents lived apart for many years, her father was an alcoholic who drank himself to death in a flophouse, and was "found" several days later. Perhaps her mother told her she was "just like your father, it's the red hair!" But I base this on no information, just a guess that she hated her hair for more than just aesthetics. She considered dying it to be too vain for words. Although this may be an example of her tendency to endure and complain rather than change. Her older sister Grace was a beautician, and the story may be there. Grace was the one who did her perms, up until a few years before she died. Mom would, many years after I left the house, find a stylist who would convince her to let her hair be straight, and blow dry it, by now grayed to a lovely sandy color.

I wanted mine long, for sensual reasons, to feel it on my back as the wind blew it from my face. Some of it came from dancing, ballerina buns tight and glued down. But dancers' hair was very long, and when released, could cascade and flow with wild abandon, as I had seen once in a performance of Giselle.

It was emotional, and I had an irrational affinity for hair. My only crush on a woman involved her waist length silken blonde hair, when she cut it I lost interest, so I can only assume that I am not lesbian, but that I have a hair fetish.

Bangs and curls were my father's ideal, so I stayed far away from that, since for me, if he liked it, I hated it. I certainly did not want to be attractive to him. Stubbornly resisting a great deal of parental harassment to get it cut, "you'd look so CUTE in a Pixie!" (yeah, when I was two.) I grew my hair from the time I was five until I was 14, resisting pressure all the way. Then I took skating lessons when Dorothy Hammill was winning gold. I cut my frayed, splitting, mistreated hair into that Dorothy bob. It was better.

Perms came later, with mom's approval, even encouragement. I always wanted easy, and sleek, braided back and clean. The ex liked the perms, and begged me to let it grow long, I kept it short. Until I went to Basic. It was growing along nicely, until about a week before I left him. We went to one of those 'Family Cuts' type place, and I needed a trim, but told the woman, "cut it all off", then said, no, just trim it. But all he heard was the first, and without a word, he left and walked the 6 blocks home. It was bizarre. That week later when I'd escaped, I went back and got my hair cut very short.

A few months later, while in Saudi Arabia with my Guard Unit in Kobar, sleeping in an underground garage, and with no idea what kind of place we would be stationed, probably out in the dirt- we were told that there was an Army barbershop set up for us. D and I went, along with many others, to where a long row of Philippino barbers shaved and cut, and gave a neck massage for a few rial. It felt funny, but that was nothing compared to how it looked. A line of shaved hair, topped by what was left, a bowl cut would have been more appealing. Captain Crockett looked at me, and I looked at her with the same haircut, and simultaneously we reassured each other- "It'll grow." It was always to D's credit that he fell in love with me when I had the worst haircut of my life.

Growing it and keeping it neat in nursing school, then working in nursing homes, was impossible, so I kept it short for years. Then D broke his arm, and I was overwhelmed with taking care of him after surgery, so I buzzed off all my hair. Marvelously freeing, so easy. Except for the comments from people at work. "I could never do THAT!" was the one that baffled me. It is very easy, if you want to. D's favorite theoretical response to "What does your husband think?" was that I should say, "I don't know. Should I ask him?" He liked rubbing my head, and frankly told me, "It's your hair, I love you, whatever you want."

That cut revealed just how grey I was getting. I felt I looked piebald, so I started dying it. (I will buzz it again when I am tired of dying my hair, sometime between 60 and 70 years old, and let it be whatever color it wants.) I once cut off all but the un-dyed stuff - 9 months before my visit to my parents, knowing their feelings about women dying their hair, and wishing to avoid the issue. Faint hope. My father insisted it was dyed, because it wasn't the brown I had as a child. One of a bale of last straws that ended my relationship with him.

Then, finally, wearing a hat in surgery all day so the awkward stages didn't matter, I let it grow, trimming as I went and conditioning the fuck out of it. It's been nice - childhood dream realized, but as with all such early fantasies, it doesn't matter so much now. If I have learned anything, it is the danger of investing too much emotion in hair. It annoys me when the women at work exclaim "Your hair is so long, it grows so fast" I want to slap them and say it took me 37 years to look like this. But I make some innocuous reply, and keep my own counsel. Really, I do it for my own pleasure, and how it feels when D strokes my hair down my back. Stuff so visible, yet so intimate. My friends are welcome to touch or comment,but because they are my friends, they usually do not.

Hair is public, no matter how much I might wish it otherwise. And many people who cannot keep their thoughts to themselves are deeply invested not only in their own, but in others' public images, epitomized by hair. One man who saw me at the barber getting my hair all buzzed off, approached me in the grocery store the next day to ask me why I had done it. This is the reality. To everyone I am conforming or rebelling, making a public statement. I endeavor to learn tolerance, trying to be amused that I am being taught this through such a trivial matter as stratified, keratinized, squamous epithelium, that dead matter that is hair.

Shampoo

So, the hair dressers think people shouldn't shampoo every day. Not a real study, not real science, just anecdote and pseudo history, and open comments from everyone with an opinion. I'm sure there are many people, those with thicker, curlier, dryer hair than mine, with a good natural bristle brush applied, would do just fine washing their hair much less. But workers out in the dirt and weather, and those of us with thin, fine, oily hair, really like not having an itchy scalp.

Some of the skewed observations? That humans never before washed their hair daily. Didn't bathe daily either, but had skin diseases and parasites and itches. People in parts of Europe don't wash their hair every day. Neither did my mother, nor did I when I was a child, not allowed to. As soon as some gentler shampoos came out, and I was allowed to, my itchy scalp and stringy hair went away. A decent conditioner wouldn't come along for a few years, but that kept away the knots and tangles.

Oh, and how women would pile their hair on their head. Yes, and braid it and hide it under a hat. Daily brushing sessions, sure, for the middle to upper classes. The lower workers made do with much less, and weekly baths. Ever notice how little a problem dandruff is these days? Used to be ubiquitous. Simple daily washing away of dead skin works a treat. A few of the photos on Shorpy show how some women's hair used to look when washed rarely. Pretty obviously greasy, plastered down, and for many - stringy - as I remember my own as a child. The ones with thicker hair, different story. The directions from photographers taking school mug shots were not to wash hair that day. I had many ugly photos taken until I was responsible for my own shampooing, and ignored the instructions. May work just fine for kids with different kinds of hair, but for me, completely wrong.

Not to mention that I wash my OR hats every time I wear them, and I can smell which ones I've worn. I'm hardly going to go a day without washing my hair, since I am in close contact with patients. That area of skin doesn't need less cleaning, just because it's covered with hair, quite the opposite. At least for my hair.

I realize that different kinds of hair takes different care, and that is my point. I don't wash my hair every day because I'm told I must, but because I have discovered I must. Just as cats don't need water baths, but clean themselves and with a little brushing for the long hairs, there are probably people who could always just brush and that would be clean.

I do wish someone would do some genuine research into this. Because the anti-shampoo league is bringing out the Green stick of environmentalism. That makes me feel like I should reexamine my habits. But hairdressers? I've heard some ridiculous off the cuff advice from them, so that doesn't count as anything but irritation.


All for Green, but not for retro-nostalgic anti-clean.

Soaps

Bothered by the No Soap experiment guy. Glad it worked out for him, like those who go non-shampoo on their hair. Some can, obviously. And I feel defensive about refusing to even try it. I don't use make-up, perfume, lotion only in the dry of winter - all products the vast majority of women won't even go out of the house without. And now I'm being out-naturaled by no-soapers.

Ain't gonna happen. I like soap. I like shampoo. I remember as a kid only washing my hair once a week. I have a school photo of my lank, greasy hair hanging like limp string. That was the year I started pushing for more frequent washing. I remember how common dandruff was. I remember how itchy my scalp was. I do skip washing my hair two days at a time when I'm at work, because I'm wearing a hat. Remember when everyone always wore a hat? It was on it's way to dying out when I was a kid, as the shampoos boasted of being "gentle enough to use everyday!" Oh, glory, I could have a clean head every day.

Yeah, we evolved without soap. We evolved with specific species of head and body lice. We evolved in small roaming bands of hominids. We didn't evolve to live in enclosed buildings with a lot of other people, we just made up most of our environment for the last couple of thousand years. We evolved without hats.

I keep thinking of the wedding some of our unit were invited to in Saudi. A tribal woman sat behind me with her little girl. Spiffed up for the wedding, in an elaborately embroidered dress, her hair braided and coiled. Clean, certainly, brushed and styled, but also flat against her head, dull, oily. Her best, and her hair looked like mine when I was a child and hadn't washed it. Not a criticism of her, just evidence that not all of us have the kind of hair or skin that thrives on our own body oils.

Seen the same in the Shorpy photos, a class of girls, a shop of women, and some have lush, curling hair, some have thin, uncooperative stuff, like mine. I suspect some hair, some skin, does do better with just water.

Should we all use less soap, get into the dirt more? Maybe. Some of us. Fewer chemicals, surely. Stop with all soap? Not me.


Also read an article in a waiting room, about older women who "do it right" by staying stylish - but classic, letting their hair be it's real color etc. i.e. Judi Dench, Jamie Lee Curtis, Well, cool. Then ruined it for me by declaring that for an older woman with grey hair to be appropriate, she must keep it short. Well, there you go. I should be myself, but not if I want my hair long. Loved long hair all my life, and always berated for it, never right. Buzzed it very short for a few years, that was wrong as well. Expected to get a cut and perm to be an adult, right along with stockings and skirts. All these artificial requirements having nothing to do with my own preferences and life.

I don't know why it irritates me so much sometimes. Hearing my parents' voices in my head, probably. They never go away, do they?

Cuttings

Long ago, I took scissors to my own hair, and got berated for it. I thought I'd been clever and considerate, since I wanted to cut something, and my hair was my own.

It would not be the last time I cut my own hair, but found out that others considered this wrong, as, apparently, my hair was not, in their opinion, my own to do with as I wished.

My mother had my hair cut in a Pixie, while I wanted to grow it out, because I was to be a flower girl for my cousin's wedding. I remember distinctly, in the back seat of the car, on the way home that night, when my allowance to grow it long had been rescinded. Well, couldn't have it looking like THAT, could we?

I had my hair buzzed, during those years when hair itself seemed too stressful, stopped in the grocery store after, a stranger who had been in the barber shop approached me, asking me - as though he had a right to an answer, why I had my hair cut like a boy? I countered that he didn't know me, had no right to even ask, none of his business, and, in addition, bugger off.

One of my National Guard officers, made a point, every drill, to comment on the length of my hair, as though it mattered to her in some way. I got so that I replied with non-commital grunts.

Hair, to me, is about self determination.

I wanted, now, in my life, to have long hair. I screwed it up, and now I have to deal. Not about being bad or good, just not what I'd chosen, save by my ill-considered choices. Chose the action, chose the consequences. I am getting very irritated at how many people seem to think their opinion is more right than my own taste about how I would prefer to look, and can't. Good friends, those of you who allow that I am right - but are just assuring me it's not so bad, fine, appreciated. Those who tell me I am wrong, it's much better this way, read Carolyn Hax.

Hairy

Finally got Good Hair to watch. I am in equal parts appalled and amazed and amused (thanks to Chris Rock) and horrified. (Highly recommended, by the way.) I've had enough friends who've dealt with the issues of "black" hair to get the jokes. Racism is alive and well, and none more oppressive than the oppressed themselves. (Keeping their own in line to avoid censure.) The selling of "european" hair, which is actually Asian, specifically Indian, hair for weaves, plus toxic relaxer chemicals and the expectations of beauty and the high price of fashion. Honestly, I have always thought that natural black hair is lovely, and relaxed black hair looks like Barbie fake nylon hair. My thin, stringy hair would be considered "good" and I'm frankly shocked. On the other hand, I'm so glad I have decided to eschew all salons and "beauty" treatments for the rest of my life. This movie unsettled me as thoroughly as Bury Me Standing. About Roma (Gypsy) belief and culture, the superstition and self destructive values, odd and alien.

I've commented about Hair before, long ago. And I am still frustrated at how important the issue seems. Even considering that it is a symptom of genetic health, it's so overblown, so exaggerated and emotional.

So, I set in concrete my promise to myself. I will not get my hair cut, though I may trim it myself. I will wear no make-up, apply no dye, nor will I in any way support the industries that tell women that they are inadequate unless they do so. Easy enough looking at 50, I suppose. But I will be myself, and let anyone think what they may.

Redheaded

I was not what my mother wanted. She wanted a little girl, her little girl. So she made me do the things she was denied, due to poverty, too many siblings, not enough safety.

She was given red, high-top sneakers from the dole. She hated them, but they were the only shoes she would get. I was put in solid leather shoes, hard soled, and although certainly in part because of my turned-in-feet issues, just as certainly in part because they were not sneakers. I had sneakers, for play, sometimes, when I was a bit older. I'd have loved those red high-tops.

She wore hand-me-downs, often in dark colors, cut down from adult clothes, cast-offs. She loved pastels and ruffles, lace and embroidery. While I wore some hand-me-downs, as rarely came my way, with only older brothers, mostly she made my clothes or I got new from the store. The late 60s, early 70s were not a good time for a modest child, who loved black and dark purple, to have to rely on cheap clothes, and mom was a decent seamstress. Too bad about the double-knit fabric, but sometimes she used cotton. And at school I wore uniforms - which she also made. I had no issue with shabby clothing, preferred older styles. She often apologized about her poor sewing, not as good as her mother's. I never understood that.

She rarely got milk, which she loved. She made me drink a full glass of whole milk at every meal. I gagged on the stuff, and I'm sure that was part of why I had such an irritable gut. She hated vegetables, and would not buy anything green that was not in a can. Potatoes and corn were the only vegetation I knew, and disgusting canned lima beans. I knew from Aunt Alma's feeding me that I loved spinach, fresh or frozen. My mother would not even try. She never needed to eat vegetables. The obesity and yo-yo dieting were unrelated. She never ate much, but none of it was fresh, or green.

She hated her red hair, kept it short, permed, curled. Cut my hair, resisted my constant struggle to let me keep it long. Had me perm my hair in high school, and 'treated' me to more perming in college. My hair was a constant source of commentary, good color, but why was I doing THAT with it? Whatever that was.

I imagine myself now, talking to her little girl, giving her my glass of milk, giving her a fluffy Shirley Temple dress, including those shoes. And brushing her hair (I can't remember ever stroking my mother's red hair, it was so often in curlers, or not to be mussed with because we were going out.) I'd admire the color, how beautiful, just as it was. I never got why she hated it so.



This dress, so short, so … ugh, gives me nightmares.

I haven't quite gotten to the resolution here, but I'm sure compassion for her small, wounded heart, is the right direction. I don't think, if we could meet both as children the same age, we would like each other. Not hate, but a distinct disinterest. No common ground. For a woman who so craved her own little girl, that must've been heartbreaking, in ways she couldn't understand, or couldn't admit, even to herself.

It is all to grieve for.

Long

Woman at work talking about how she has to get her hair cut, despite wanting to grow it out.
She's got curly hair, which I have to assume makes it more irritating. I so understand. I've been bobbed and buzzed, permed and Dorothy Hamill'd and dyed and everything else over the years, and the growing out is such a bugger. It doesn't lay right, it's messy and unkempt and refuses to stay under a hat or in a clip. Been there, done that, over and over and over. Which is why I have mine long, not for the look of it, but because it feels good to me, and I never have to fucking grow it out again. Oh, I hack off the ends a couple of times a year, so it doesn't look scraggly, it's not the cutting I mind. Cutting is easy, a pleasure. It's the growing it past awkward stages. The worse was from buzzed to can-tie-it-back, years I'm telling you, years. I'm done, and so is my 'do. Let it be what it is, for the rest of my life.

My long hair is not a statement, save of never wanting to be arsed again about my hair. Tie it up, braid it back, it stays under my hat in the OR, and what the hell else do I really need? Oh, I could buzz it every week or so, which is not a bad option. But my face is a bit harsh for that for everyday and all places. Tempting, sure, very easy, I did like it, but, well, there is something wonderfully sensual about long hair, and I have always preferred it long. Not to mention that it does invite less comment. Misogynist jerks will feel an obligation to point out that a woman's hair is too short and masculine for their liking to any woman in public. They really will, at least here. It is a kind of tacit invitation, which I prefer not to extend.


Got a reel for cat's leash. Thank you Lucy, we'll try it out this afternoon, but I'm sure it will be very helpful.

Do you get to see the eclipse tomorrow? It should at least make the light very strange here, as the sun sets.

Ceremony

For some reason today, I have been fixated on my mother's anger at me for cutting my own hair as a small child when I found her scissors. And connected that to when I was going to be my cousin's flower girl, and although I'd been promised letting my hair grow long, I had to have a pixie cut for the wedding. So, I couldn't cut my own hair, but she could cut my hair, and I had no recourse. Also, I have a dim recollection of being pushed into the role, with the lure of a fancy pooffy dress, the hair cutting that broke the previous promise not mentioned until in the car on the way home. I don't know that I ever actually agreed, nor that I was actually asked, rather than it all being assumed.

That the pooffy dress turned out to be a detested pastel pink was simply a backhanded slap.

I suspect this is all related to my own dislike of weddings. Ceremonies generally, weddings specifically. Girl(and I use the word advisedly) at work, got engaged last week in a semi-public, if not quite youtubable manner, ring on the finger, female cow-orkers in full gush, and I had to concentrate on the sudoku so that I wouldn't say anything. Because anything I said, however politic I tried to make it, could come out as snide as I actually felt.

And I kept thinking about the new Principal Nun for my last year of high school, an incompetent bully micromanager, who dangled "not walking up the aisle for graduation" as the carrot/stick to keep the seniors in line. The graduation ceremony itself was a fiasco, parents crawling over pews, flashbulbs popping, (this was done in church, catholic school, that sort of thing) noise and rude behaviour, and principal nun saying names and honors incorrectly (including mine.) I was disgusted, this was the great prize? I never wanted to be part of any ceremony or honor again the rest of my life. My own first wedding, although small, was just as much a hash, in a different way. Niece fainted, no music, engagement ring lost, photos with trucks in the background, not to even mention wedding an awful person.

Yeah, not a fan of weddings. Especially if there are tiny flower girls, who were too young to be properly asked, not old enough to actually consent to the role.

I had to go to my Army basic graduation, dress uniform, awful shoes, standing at attention for a stupid long time. I managed to get out of the rest, if not all the other Color Guard duties. Never so bad when I was a face in the line, marching. Marching made it much easier.

Didn't mind the parade after we got home from Gulf War I. Rather nice walk, actually. Had decent boots. Medical units can't keep in step for shit. I always liked the Drill & Ceremony because it was a kind of dance, just keep on the correct foot and listen - didn't bother me that none of the folks around me were out of step. And we got the cheers for a different unit - the announcer must've gotten out of sync. Walked home after, a short day, starting early just made it less hot for the 24th of July (Pioneer Day.)

I'm willing to admit there are good weddings, been to one. But if they are good, it's because the central couple are good people, and good hosts. Nothing to do with the venue or the flowers or the napkins or the attendants or flower girls.

No wonder so many people get drunk at weddings. Do what you gotta do.




Oh, and this is good news.

Humming

Seeing a hummingbird on the way back from the library, I pointed it out too late for D to see. And carefully mentioned that hummingbirds hum with their wings. Only possibly because they don't know the words. And began a rather protracted rant on people trying to bust a commonly held belief with dubious rebuttal. I had a woman cutting my hair who objected when I told her my hair tended to be greasy.

"It's not the hair that's greasy, it's the scalp!" She corrected me with absolute certainty.

Well, actually, I know that it's the oil from my scalp that gets onto my hair, but I didn't SAY my hair produced the oil. Any more than if there is grease on a table that I think it came from the table, instead of the fries. After all these years, this still sticks in my mind.

I had one of those enthusiastic science teachers in grade 8, never looked at the book, lots of stories and animation. Well, I'd gone on a tour of a nuclear power plant with Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Ernie on a trip through Ontario, and learned about heavy water, and the isotope deuterium. And what it is used for. So when I got back to class, hoping for more information, she confidently told me that heavy water was water with a lot of minerals in it. Disillusioned, I lost a lot of my trust in showy teaching. My high school science teacher gave me the right answer the next year, after double checking his answer - to my admiration. I was one of the few who didn't defend Mrs. Z's data when it conflicted with his.

My older brother, a science geek in his last year in high school, refuted my statement that the water was getting hotter as it boiled longer. "Water gets to the boiling point, then it turns to steam, it can't get hotter than that." Perhaps only nine, I remained deeply suspicious. It took a long time for me to figure out that I was right - sort of - after all. Water can certainly superheat, water under pressure gets hotter, and it does not instantly turn to steam in all cases when it hits the magical 100C. There can be complicating factors.

Many commonly held beliefs are not strictly correct, but simply refuting them often leads to the error of simplification to the point of inaccuracy. Got any others?

Unsaid

Listening to two of my young cow-orkers talking about their hair stylists and the cost of a dyejob for said hair. Remembering my mother springing for my perms when I was in my teens.

I did not say to these lovely young women that my biggest regret was the amount of money I spent on my hair at that age and over the years. The frustration of getting anyone to actually cut it short enough, the perms, the neck pain at the salon sinks.

And suddenly thought, and that my mother always had money for her hair, but getting fresh vegetables, or even frozen vegetables, was too fucking expensive. She would pay $50 for my perm, but get all stingy about fresh fruit.

My hair would have been a lot healthier if I'd had decent nutrition.

These are the occasional blobs that float to the surface, unannounced and stinking of deep clogged grease.

Punk

More colored hair! Not going to take it this far, but I find this gorgeous.



Thinking about Steampunk, and how much the esthetic appeals to me. As did the punk scene, which was a real thing in Detroit when I was in college the first time (on a scholastic scholarship.) I think if I'd had a lot less to lose, I'd've joined in completely, desperately. Or, if I'd've had a bit of spare money, and could afforded clothes and hair dye, tattoos and piercings, that would have been me. Instead, I lived poor, but with a scholarship to lose, and the odd night at Clutch Cargo.

So, my desire to have brilliant hair goes way back, to being in not quite the right place at not quite the right time. Now, I can indulge my creative esthetic with impunity. Nothing to lose, enough income to afford. No official at work to object, since it's not visible when I'm on duty, because I have to wear a hat.

As I got tattoos at 35, for the same reasons. All decently show-able, and work-coverable. Perhaps if allowed temporary gum tattoos as a kid, I wouldn't care so much, but I didn't and I do.

I really prefer that workplaces not interfere in this, though. Let the cosmetic choices be, piercings, dyes or tats, no one cares anymore.

Watched a young couple with an infant and 2 year old. Mom got all over little girl screeching, well in control. Much as a high pitched screech makes me cringe uncontrollably, I had nothing but admiration for the young woman, with blue hair and multiple piercings, who immediately quieted her daughter. When little girl melted down at the check out, dad (in mohawk) picked her up, kindly but decisively, and removed her. Little girl had decorative band-aids on her face, so she was not being stifled, no fear in the interactions at all. I remarked to the cashier, in parent's hearing, how lovely it was to watch Good Parents. I hope they heard me. I hope they know they are doing well, anyway.


It's important, both to be able to express creativity, and be socially responsible. For parents to teach discipline. For society to accept variety.


I love my tattoos. I love my purple streaked hair. Such a punk.

Tape

I started off here, long ago, writing about hair. (See also the label.)

And I'm not the only one struggling with this personal, but very public, manifestation of self.

Mostly, I've dropped my end of the rope, refuse to negotiate or engage on the subject. But maybe there is something more about it. Reading The Bonobo and the Atheist, and how often grooming is how they calm and appease each other. We primates are hair focused creatures. When we can't touch each other's hair, perhaps we talk about it, too much. Women become hair with something underneath, that (most annoyingly) talks. Men worry about baldness. It's a signal, perhaps so essential as to be outside of our ability to reason.

Black hair in the US is even more fraught.

Letting mine be itself, and simply getting older, has let the issue dwindle for me. The respite has given me some insight.

On a different note, D sent me this at work.


They're remodeling the first floor at the library which involves a lot of demolition/construction in circulation. They've put down blue tape to warn people of hazardous areas:





Happy Solstice.

Suspicious

 So, one of the weird issues I've come to happy terms with is my hair.  Which is not straight. I'm at the loosest level of curl/wave. A situation that seems to have caused my mother great anguish and no curiosity  whatsoever. It explains why my hair took a perm to its little keratinous heart. 

As the vitamin D supplements support hair growth, it's become rather obvious that the younger, shorter hair has a pronounced curve, the older and longer hairs weigh down and keep the wave only nearer the end. This results in what my mother called messy and flyaway, but could more charitably be call tousled. 

And therein lies the real problem. She was not kind, not interested in seeing me for who I was and finding something to like.  When I deviated from her ideal little girl, she worked hard to change that. For all that my father was outright abusive, her treatment of me was ground into my soul. 

It's not about the hair, it's about how she saw me, or failed to see me. And her utter lack of interest in me as a distinct personality. 

The old cptsd has been triggered over the past couple of months, and I'm struggling to get it soothed. So all the old crap bursts to the surface.  Children are not so much resilient as impressionable.  They accept their reality as Just How Things Are, and spend the rest of their lives reconciling that with consensus reality. Or not, as the case may be.

Finally saw a Primary Care doctor yesterday. Mostly relieved, my skin issues are irritating, but not indicative of anything else. My crackpot theory is that I am dealing with the aftereffects of covid, long covid. Body pains, skin issues. I have no proof, and I won't swear to it, but I'm deeply suspicious. My BP is higher than ever, and I'm heavier, but nothing critical. Which could be post menopausal, or the two combined. Pretty much on track for living into my 90s.  Dammit.

They have changed my schedule, with my reluctant consent, so that I cover clinic on Thursday as well, with no admin day. It's horrible, but I have to agree it's necessary.  Every day I work, I have clinic, outside of the odd Monday.  With the new guy starting Jan 2, it will take about 3 months before he's working independently. This is going to be a process. 

Ytrebup

My first steps into anti-puberty are about as bad as the first steps in. All expressed in my stupid hair, as it started.

We all know about my dying out the grey, finally coming to terms, half hearted attempts to let it grow out, the ridiculously expensive salon afternoon, where the color was mellowed, but the cut sucked. Yeah, well, I asked at the time if getting the brown dye out would be easier, and was told yes certainly.

I tried doing this myself.

From the other side of the looking glass, this awkward phase feels pretty awful. Oh, I can cope better, but the feelings are just as awful.

My hair, or part of it, is orange. I cut off much of the offending material. But the thought of growing out bad hair, again, ugh. And much of the orange is still there. I weigh cutting all of of the orange off, dealing with being all shaggy for many months, but with just my real hair, salty and peppery, left. This is not my color, I look, and feel, sallow. And I can't decide which is worse.

Poopie.

(Rinsing with tea again this morning seems to have muted the brassiness just enough for me to cope.)

(Proof, if any is needed, that much can be solved by a nice, strong cuppa.)

(These are the problems you want to have.)

Rats

My 4 yr old next-door neighbor wanted to come give me a hug when she heard that my mother died. She did, then told me I had Elsa hair. I told her I thought her hair was beautiful, which it is. Congolese/Persian hair, exuberant and gorgeous. A bright and lovely human she is. I hadn't planned on telling her mom, my lovely neighbor who vies with us to see who can bring in each other's trash bins faster. Circumstances made it more graceful to mention.

My head and my heart were always coping quite well. My body remembered being part of her, and reacted accordingly, or so I have figured out. The two year old that Aunt Alma* cared for, for two weeks when my mother was in hospital for a hysterectomy, sobbed.

Head: Don't look at me, I'm not even thinking about this.
Heart: Hey, all I'm feeling is anger and relief.
Body: (Incohate keening, projectile tears.)

Unpack that* if you like, I've done it a few times, and it still feels a bit off. Aunt Alma held off getting Gigi, her poodle, until after, so she wouldn't be taking care of a new puppy's first weeks, and a toddler she didn't really know well. I've heard, not from her, that she had been some kind of nurse. My mother rationalized that was why she was so unsympathetic around anyone who was sick. I found her always kind and generous, and practical.

My mother was sympathetic, but not very useful. Not quite as aggressively useless as my father. Why the everfuckinghell did these people have children?


As we sat playing the game in the dining room yesterday, Eleanor stared out the front window. Intently. In proper Mouse Stalking Posture. I looked out, and sure enough, there was a rat. We're looking into getting a rat-zapper, for the basement, since we don't let the cats down there. Any that get in the house proper will be savaged. We don't know if Zeppo knows how to kill, but Eleanor surely does, and he learns fast. I nearly feel sorry for the creature. Almost.

We picked up sale soil at the garden center yesterday. Two women, employees, separately, raved about my purple hair. To me, it's faded quite a bit, but I only see it in the mirror. Perhaps out in daylight, and from the back, it's more impressive.

Cleaned a couple of pots to plant grass inside for cats. Cleared away the harvested wheat, sowed it and saved a jarful for cat-grass, as well as the oats. Maybe not put rat-food out in a convenient feeding dish, a bin and basket on the front porch.


*My father couldn't work and take care of his child. My older brothers I think went with different relatives, at least on weekends, while still going to school and taking care of themselves during the week? He refused to let her sister, my Aunt Evelyn take care of me? Whatever went on there, Aunt Alma took good care of me, and our long attachment and friendship, laid down a solid foundation then.

Deeply

My day off, and Dylan covering shifts for a cow-orker during her finals week. Which falls under the headings of New Job flexibility, Mere Professionalism, AND Karmic dues, he's fine with it. He's been told how nice he is about as many times as he's been cussed out, in public service, (Oh, and this is the Public as only those who use words like "rabble" and "mob" would see it) he's doing rather well.

Since I can't really sleep in, at least not without drugs taken very late at night, I was pretty much up at the usual time of just before 0600. Resolving to do many errands and chores, stymied by late opening businesses, and wisely remembering this is my one day off and I do need some rest, I got going about 9. Just before.



Vroom.

Poultry for cat food, which took more flexibility than anticipated, but it's in cooking slowly as I write.

Hair stain. Ok, not really necessary, but something I've wanted to do for as long as I can remember. Purple. Playful and autonomous disregard for my hair is ground in deep. When my hair was very dark, the dyes available wouldn't have worked without first bleaching. Don't know how long this will last, but doing it myself means it's a cheap experiment.



Depending upon how my hair falls, it can be very subtle, although I've already gotten my first compliment, that it goes with my glasses.

Moby came to inspect, and it's fine by him. Dylan thinks it's cool, but then, he fell in love with me when I had the worst haircut of my life. A short bowlcut, with line above my ears, from the contracted Filipeno barbers in Saudi. ("It'll grow!")




The kitchen floor went through a few moments when it would be fine to eat off of, being so clean. The cats think nothing was wrong with it in the first place. The nearly over-full countertop compost pail is emptied onto the proper pile. Dishes are away, fridge door is re-repaired (hot glue gun.)

This doesn't seem like that much, really. Still, got out and it's done. Planning on christmas here, which suits me to the ground. No driving, no shoes, easy on the religion. Don't mind cooking or cleaning for these folks, not terribly demanding. Ha. Not at all, really.

Particles

Storms moving through, which keeps the smoke particles grounded. Moby dealing better than usual with the thunder, not hiding anyway. Lots of warnings and alerts, but so far it’s just been rain. Momentary hail. Disappointing to this storm enthusiast. But maybe still to come. Full rain barrels though!

No less than three people have commented, complimented me on the purple hair. I’m torn. Because I do it for myself. But I also know that it would be utterly churlish to tell them to mind their own business, when I’m out in public with bright purple hair. It rather invites looks. So, I stay polite and say, “thank you” to whomever says, “I like your hair! I like the purple!”

Still.

On the other hand, I’m sort of reaching out to people by doing the purple hair in the face of public response. Also practice in handling less than ideal interactions that I would prefer not to have.

Finished reading, If I Understood You, Would I Have This Look on My Face, Alan Alda. The power of empathy and improvisation as the tool to develop it. A clear writing style, he has quite a distinctive voice.


Off to watch the skies. Hoping for rain. As per.

100

My friend did a list of 100 things about her. So I took up the dare and wrote 100 things about me right now. It's a loopy list, as lists often are.


100 things about me right now
1. People at work think I am obsessively neat and organized, which I am -there.
2. A clean tidy house is nice, but I can take it or leave it.
3. I mix reds and purples of all different shades in our furniture and rugs, and it still looks harmonious, which surprizes me.
4. I do not understand people who have to go find just the right color accent piece to fit in their homes. Or who think everything should match.
5. My hands look like I work with them and I am proud of that.
6. I have never had a manicure, and do not ever want one.
7. I am feeling the aches of living long enough.
8. I do not want to complain. But I do.
9. Cheerfulness is my unsuspected energy source. It becomes punchiness when I get tired.
10. Humor is my sword and shield.
11. I like shaving D's head.
12. I do not like being guessed much younger than I am, I prefer the respect over the flattery.
13. My cat may be the reincarnation of my childhood cat, both originally named Midnight. I feel honored that he came back to me. And that we renamed him Moby- which is better.
14. I am comforted by the idea of reincarnation.
15. I worry about having guests as much as I look forward to them. I do not want to be overbearing, nor neglectful.
16. I love having a massage.
17. Chiropractic care is a key element to my current comfort.
18. I still think about old loves fondly, and would like to know they are doing well without actually contacting them.
19. I still check the obits for the ex's name, but less frequently now.
20. I'd rather be too cold than too warm.
21. I have started using facial moisturizer.
22. I have much more grey hair than I let show, but one day I will.
23. I notice other women's grey hair much more.
24. I can still put in a foley under any conditions.
25. I notice other women's breasts more here in Boston, and I wonder why.
26. My spouse still looks familiar and right to me. I am immeasurably comforted by this.
27. I would like a real, purpose built, vibrator. You know.
28. I would like to make more pottery, but my back couldn't take it.
29. I would like to smoke pot once more, and I probably never will.
30. I like bells, and would like to have more of them.
31. I love having long hair, especially having D stroke it.
32. I like wearing D's old sweaters.
33. I can't think of a secret I have that no one knows.
34. I love to bellydance, even just around the house.
35. I want a red umbrella.
36. I do not brush my teeth, or floss, enough.
37. I do clean my ears and bellybutton enough.
38. I cry almost every episode of Joan Of Arcadia.
39. I talk to my Aunt Evelyn often, she died many years ago.
40. I do not talk to my parents. Or my brothers. And this is progress.
41. I like skipping down the street.
42. I am very open minded.
43. I think abortion is better than an abused child.
44. I think the gay rights movement is the best test of democracy.
45. I think marriage should be abolished as a legal state, replaced with only civil unions. Marriage would be purely a religious state, with no legal status. Spouses would be legally Engaged, with all the current legal benefits and responsibilities of marriage.
46. I think one room schoolhouses in storefront buildings, small classes from the neighborhood, each student with a laptop and a national curriculum, two main teachers and circuit teacher and guest speakers, self paced education, would vastly improve our education system. And stop jr. high misery. Desegregate the age groups.
47. I get a lot of crack pot ideas.
48. I like singing new words to songs to comment on what is going on around me.
49. I like playing with puppets.
50. I like guessing what Moby might be thinking.
51. I like Moby leaning on me.
52. I would like to make music videos for They Might Be Giants songs.
53. I like a lot more than I hate, and this is real progress.
54. I rescued a lamp from the trash room, and D fixed it, I am very happy about this.
55. I also rescued a tv cart.
56. I really want to do more yoga, and I don't know why it is so hard for me to keep at it.
57. I love a good pen.
58. I like the state quarters, especially Michigan, because I am relieved that my old home state didn't embarrass me by doing it badly.
59. I am greedy about tea.
60. I sometimes laugh at my patients, not in their face.
61. Sometimes my patients laugh at me, which is fair enough.
62. Best is when we laugh together.
63. I love when my patient makes me laugh.
64. Being made to laugh is glorious.
65. I only wear one pair of earrings these days, as they are non pareil. Pink glass, but wow. A gift. From D.
66. I am very funny when I am very tired.
67. I miss being in the OR.
68. I miss having friends just drop by.
69. I love Boston.
70. I still get occasional bad dreams about the ex.
71. I enjoy Japanese incense.
72. I am a snob about mediocre movies, but really bad ones I can respect, as well as excellent ones
73. I am suspicious of the judgment of people whose favorite movie is manipulative and mediocre.
74. I often pick up stuff with my bare feet at home.
75. I do not have a favorite anything, is depends on how I am feeling, although I can usually come up with a list.
76. Except for D who is my favorite.
77. I enjoy watching Moby drinking water out of a teapot left for the purpose.
78. I love cobalt blue mugs, but my best mug is red.
79. I enjoy working at a big famous hospital. But I am not impressed with the famous people who go there.
80. I enjoy counting and rolling coins.
81. I do not wear rings, my nails are very short, I do not know how other nurses wear rings and keep long nails without hurting themselves or their patients.
82. The new hair clips are wonderfully useful, even in my thin hair.
83. I enjoy traveling on trains.
84. I love sleeping.
85. Being able to afford small luxuries, like good sheets, is very satisfying to me.
86. Weird news is the only kind I follow daily.
87. I read the comics daily.
88. I wish our picture page, and my essay page were more widely read, but I worry that they might be more widely read, and trouble would follow.
89. I am deeply subversive, but only for good, not for evil.
90. I like penguins.
91. I miss Lava Hot Springs.
92. I think I could still field strip an M16, with some practice, I could still do it blindfolded.
93. I can throw accurately, but not powerfully.
94. Fun to me is singing to D's guitar playing.
95. I have developed a powerful voice from Sacred Harp singing.
96. I fantasize about my essays being published, though I know this is foolish.
97. I am slowly learning patience.
98. Walking is a meditative experience.
99. I want to make some real friends here. It is taking longer than I hoped.
100. I want all our friends to come visit, then move here.

Ruckus

The ruckus built, waking everyone in the Abbey not already astir. Hinge a black bear passed off the damp bundle into the waiting arms of a knotted washline of pale night knits making suggestions and sending young apprentices off for excessive supplies. Rope slumped, bedraggled and relieved on the bench just inside, a serene smile crept over her features. Hinge patted her shoulder, "I"m off to care for my dogs, then to bed. I'm sure I'm the morning shift." He headed off, his job this night done.

"Master Rope, come to the bath. I'll get your knits later. You are just knackered, eh? I've been so worried about you." Bouillon arrived to fuss over the limp figure. "What is that smell?"

Rope's shoulder shook as she laughed silently, signaled agreement with open palms, and nodded tiredly. The lean meed pulled the exhausted women up and draped her arm over his shoulder, batting away a thick, wet lock of hair. She still overtopped him by a few inches, and kissed the crown of his head, and ineffectively tucked the dreads back. Her voice whispered in a laconic but urgent slur, "Sal."

"Mule showed up yesterday morning."

More effort, but just a questioning look of exasperation from bloodshot, brown tinged eyes.

"Yes, with all your gear. Your journeyman got it all secured and recorded," Bouillon added, "I helped him a bit." He shook his head. "I know you're in bad shape, when you can't talk no more. C'mon." And he half carried her down and away, past the commotion at the spa door and down to the ofuro, muttering, "But I expect the whole story tomorrow... biggest story all year and I'm missing out." Followed by continued reassurances about collected specimens, weather reports on her pewter, cleaning her robe, and resigned complaints about having more patients to care for now, as pockets empty into his free hand.

The clamoring crowd drifted off to sleep in their beds. Now only the shaved heads of apprentices congregated in the spa clinic, Candle and the journeyman medic's overgrown locks marking them out as they set order. The small white body lay exposed on a padded table, warmed stones wrapped in lint snugged under her fragile arms, in her groin, bright portable lights illuminated the bluish skin, bruised, scraped and chilled, and threw shadows all over the variegated wooden floor. Sunken eyes hung closed, matted hair leaked pinkish mud, ribs showed slow shallow breaths. Hands inserted one end of a grey translucent flexible tube into her arm, attached to a hanging glass bottle of warm, milky fluid. Amazed conversations floated phrases. "I've never seen.... " and "How on earth did... " as the journeyman medic pressed a hissing oxygen funnel over her face, and slowly pushed the gas into her lungs with a sheep bladder reservoir.

They turned the body gently onto the side, and a communal gasp puffed. "A pressure sore, strange that it's so square. Middle of her back. Salt water dressings in the morning, right Candle?" Granite the journeyman confirmed. Others washed her with warm cloths, applied oily ointments, and laid black blankets over her, another clipped away at the hair, all laid their hands on her, willing her to survive.

A large black dog parked, unnoticed, beneath the table.


"She is definitely pinking up, now." Candle pronounced, after an hour of concentrated effort. "I think we can safely settle her somewhere for the night. Yes, clean and dry tonight, tomorrow on you, Granite the Medic." She searched the room, "Where's Bouillon?"

"Taking care of your other patient." This from the tall, and admittedly, hulking, man in the doorway. His black wool hung upon him, so he looked like an ancient monk, thick canvas trousers covered his legs. The white knitted slippers on his feet, with two red knotwork eyes each, and a hint of floppy ears, belied a complexity of personality.

"Good, Lens, that's where we're going. Keep all my hands in one room. Right next to your cell, Lens the Nightwatch. With your new neighbor." Candle made to send some apprentices up to get warmers ready, but Lens stopped her with a raised hand.

"No. Your other patient, Rope the Weather got a bit frayed bringing in this lump of excitement. Bou got her to the baths. This one is for me. Right next door, you say?" He scooped up the child in one hand, held aloft the attached fluid in the other, to sail off majestically, and surprisingly fast, leaving the apprentices to snatch the flotsam of warmers and bedding in his wake. Out and up, the walkway trembled under the weight of his bunny slippered feet. He knocked with an elbow, then entered the already lit, and apparently empty cell. The hushed sound of a half dozen people trying to be quiet nudged into the space.

"I'm just in the pot room, Candle, not moving unnecessarily. But I could use a hand at this point," called a strained voice. "Oh, and the cat showed up, in here as well."

One of the apprentices, having laid the warmer down, scurried over to the door, "Um, I'm Dado, I'll help you... " and went in. After a few thumps and quiet conversation, both emerged tentatively. "See?" The cat stayed hid.

Stone made a slow stagger toward the nested child in the high alcove bed, spasms halting her progress, even with the gentle meed at her elbow. "Ah, the sick lame and lazy all together. Are you Lens of the Spiral?"

"Yes, I am. Welcome, neighbor. I brought you a roommate." Lens smiled until his eyes disappeared behind folds. "I'm here for the winter, we didn't insulate the Spiral windmill." A deep chuckle, as he swept his long straight black hair back into the tie it had escaped from. "I think I like Lens the Spiral, due for a change, ha. Oh, hey there Bill." The dog stepped gingerly over the doorstep with only front paws, scanning and sniffing, until focusing on the alcove. The apprentices moved aside watchfully, until Bill took up station beside the child. "I don't want to tell him not to stay."

"No, no, he's fine. Apparently I have the party room. Since I'm confined, might as well meet everyone here." Stone laughed carefully, and let the meed walk her back to bed.

"Ok, everybody, shoo. This is the job for Nightguard!" Lens flapped his hands and emptied the room of all but the two recumbent patients, a guarding dog, and an unseen cat lurking at the edge of the pot room. The breathing of the girl became audible, wet and a bit harsh, but steady. Lens turned down the lights, so only a single red LED shone in the darkness. He pulled out an old book from a pocket, shrugged off the hooded robe to reveal a much embroidered woven shirt, and settled down on the rug, to read, and sit vigil.

Simple

 

There was a prompt to post an awkward photo from childhood, so I went through what I had.  And what most struck me was... I wasn't ugly.  Compared to what I was told as a kid, all the fussing about my hair and dark circles under my eyes, and freckles, big nose, and thin lips and on and on, I can't see it. I was cute.  Even my adolescent photos... I was lovely.  Not movie start pretty, but not at all the plain and unpleasant face I assumed I had. I was beautiful, in my own way. 

And I feel such a wave of despair that I was not allowed to see that. That I was put in pastels - which were not flattering. My hair was badly cut and cared for, but it was a nice color with a slight curl. And I do look rather boyish if you hide the pigtails.  Maybe that is it, too. Well, and don't really have an open mouth smile. 

Messy hair, old t-shirt, and still, there I am. Not ugly.  

Having met several NB people in recent years, I have begun to think that if I were a young person today, I would identify as fem/NB. It's not a big revelation, more of finding a new way to express the idea. I knew I wasn't girly, but also that I wasn't a boy. Anatomically female, attracted mostly to men.  Lots of moving parts to sex/gender/orientation.  The idea that it is a simple question, "Are you a man or a woman?!" is, of course, a False Dichotomy. 

It took so long for me to grow into my own skin, and that was absolutely tied to how I was treated as a small human.  Maybe that is part of why I am so patient with my skittish cats, giving them what I needed is vital.  Not to mention admiring their beauty.