Indigo Girl

I've been doing this off and on for years. Sometime between October and January, I color my hair black. My hair is naturally black, but the sun turns it reddish, and then I henna it mahogany in the summer, so it doesn't stay black for long. In the past I've used Miss Clairol blue black, and other "safer" herbal coloring kits from the health food store, but since I henna my hair, traditional color doesn't stay in very long, and it makes my dreads very unhappy. Tonight I'm trying something new: indigo! The recipe will follow.

Indigo reminds me of the film Daughters of the Dust, and Nana Peazant's indigo stained hands. (Daughters of the Dust is a Steal Away Jordan inspiration, too).

I need 2-3 boxes, bottles, or jars of any hair coloring preparation to do my hair. Three will cover it all.

Here's the recipe I used:

• Approx. 8 oz. or so of indigo (aka "black henna"). That was one jar of Rainbow henna (black) and 4.2 oz. of indigo from Acadia Herbals. I could have used another 4 oz, and Rainbow brand is very gritty. Too gritty for dreads. Normally I henna my hair with henna gel, but it's expensive given how much I need.
• 2 c. water
• 2 c. apple cider vinegar (I almost used kombucha)
• 1/2 cup black tea (an afterthought)
• 1 package of pectin (1.75 oz)
• Essential oils of ylang ylang, petitgrain, and vetiver (because indigo and vinegar smell nasty when mixed together)--about 1/4 teaspoon total.
• latex-free gloves (found in my lab coat after work last night)
• Plastic bag
• Towel

Bring the water and vinegar to a boil. Whisk in the pectin. Boil for 1 minute. Let stand for 10 minutes.
Add essential oils to indigo powder (I may have used too much, but it smells better than it would have if hadn't used them at all).
Mix the indigo and liquid together and let stand for 20-30 minutes.
It should make a gel. If half of my indigo wasn't so gritty I think it would have. It was more like a muddy, sandy gel.

I smooshed it all into my hair. It got everywhere. Halfway through the process I took off my shirt, put the bowl into the tub, held my dreads over the bowl, andsmooshed the indigo into my hair. Towards the end I just stuck the dreads in the bowl and mushed them into what was left. I needed more, but I coated most of my hair. Then I covered my hair with a plastic grocery bag, and played on the computer for a couple of hours.

I hate the rinsing part. It took 20 minutes to get all the henna out of my hair, where it usually takes an hour to rinse out all the henna cream. I still have a little plant matter in my hair, but not enough to be annoying or look gross. Next time I'll keep it on overnight. I didn't want to sleep with mud/henna in my hair, covered by a plastic grocery bag and a towel.

The next morning...
I looks much more natural than the hair dye, and my gray hairs are still visibly gray. The ends are still a little reddish brown, so I think I'll order more indigo, or some Surya henna cream, and do it once more in a few weeks. The powdered indigo wasn't as messy as I thought it would be. My dreads love henna. They feel silky smooth (for dreads) every time I henna them, even with the henna cream.

So here are my hair observations. Since I don't spend mych time on my hair on a daily basis, when I do something big like color it, I think about it lots.

• My hair is inconveniently long. I have to move it out of the way when I pee, I sit and lay on it (and get stuck), it entangles people, and I close it in car doors and windows, among other things. Even still, the benefits and conveniences outweigh the inconveniences.
  
• I spend more money per year on monthly eyebrow maintenance than I do on my hair. All I buy for my hair is henna, soap (the same I use for the rest of me), conditioner (which Chris uses up before I ever would), and hair oil, which I make myself. I splurge from time to time and buy a scarf or a hair toy, but I find people give me these more than I buy them.
  
• I spend very little time on daily upkeep and styling of my hair. A little water on the scalp, a little oil all over, and I'm good to go. If I want to get fancy, I can put my hair in a bun in 37 seconds, and do a half bun in 16.
• Strangers ask if it's all mine at least twice a month. (yes, it is, random man at the Y)
• I always go first whenever I play Aquarius.
• I find hair styling rituals fascinating. And shaving one's head is just subversive. (In a great for you, but no thanks for me way)
  
• I love to see people's reaction when I tell them I grew my hair out from less than an inch. (There's a picture elsewhere on my blog of me in my pixie cut)
  
• In my contraband drawer, I keep a Ziploc bag of my kitchen trimmings (I trim the nape of my neck every few months--the parts that won't dread, even after 9 years), and dead dread ends (the ends get thin, and I pull them apart). Next to my bag of White Rabbit candy, my fine fancy chocolate, and other items I won't mention publicly. It's the hair-cutting as an act of subversion thing.
  
• I think about cutting it short all the time. The thought makes me laugh.
• I have nightmares twice a year or so, where I get a haircut and regret it.

More about Daughters of the Dust.

A Hair-Ripping Confession

I'm not as crunchy as I look. If the membership department of the Earth Mama Hippie Society read this, they'd probably ask for my membership card. I don't care. If they heard me complain that I don't like going to Amherst because of all the f^@%ing hippies I'd be in trouble, but not expelled. I said that to at least two people, both of whom have hippie tendencies, one of whom is a fellow Three Dreaded Ladies, and she totally agreed with me. It's really the disingenuous, Highly Unlikely-I Trustafarians that ruin it for me. I'm paraphrasing my fellow Three Dreaded Lady. Her words, not mine. Sometimes I have to go to Amherst, and I suck it up and deal, and it's not so bad.

If you're confused, I make herbal products and soaps and I sell them at the Farmer's Market in Greenfield. Our booth is Three Dreaded Ladies. The other Dreaded Ladies sell handmade clothing and cloth diapers.

As I said, my disdain and scorn for certain hippies in Amherst will not get me kicked out of the Earth Mama Hippie Society. Hippies can be viciously exclusive and scornful. Every hippie can tell you a story of being dissed or snubbed by another group of hippies for obvious and mysterious reasons. There's quite a bit of crunchier-than-thou going around. And since this is a fluff post, I will avoid a sociological observation of hippies.

My membership in the Earth Mama Hippie Society is in jeopardy because for about three years now, I have been going to a day spa in Northampton (another town that bugs the hell out of me, but there's good sushi there.) to have my eyebrows waxed and shaped. (Never mind that the name of the day spa is also the name of two dorms at UMASS, known for the crowd they attracted and the parties. Lots of hippies lived there.) I don't normally shave my legs but about once a year, I go totally Euro on the armpits. I don't even cut or brush my hair. But I do love to have my eyebrows done by a professional. This past appointment I think Ada outdid herself. She accentuated the arch so well, that when I raise my left eyebrow all traces of crunch leave my face and I look totally glamorous, even without makeup. I think I'll take a picture. I know, who cares, they're just eyebrows, and no one notices unless I point it out. Next time you see me, check out my fabulous eyebrows for yourself. They rock.

Hallelujah, I Adore It!

So now that we all know how to find our cervices if we have them, it's time for a little fluff and fun.

I'm devoting this post to hair. I'm all about the hair, and it's a good thing, because I have a considerable amount. At last measure, my hair was just beginning to creep past my butt.

I was born with a head full of jet black hair. By the time I was about 3 or 4 my hair was about waist length if you pulled the curls straight. My hair is extremely curly, and as a kid, it was impossible for me to take care of it myself, so my mom did my hair every day until I was about 11, when i got my first serious hair cut. I went from waist length to just below my shoulders. I loved it! I was liberated! I was like everyone else.

I got nothing but really negative messages from many of the elder women in my family, like my grandmother. You'd have thought I'd taken the scissors to her head. Well naturally, that just made me want to cut it shorter. By the time I was 14 I had wicked short hair--about 2 or 3 inches in the top, and totally buzzed in the back. At 15, due to an unfortunate accident with a distracted hair-stylist, I had a Duran Duran-inspired mullet. It required excessive amounts of blowdrying, hair gelling, and curling ironing, but I made the most of it. Luckily my hair grows quickly. In eight months the mullet was gone and I had hair past my shoulders. Then I entered the phase of big hair. Make that BIG hair. It was the 80's, what can I say? I had an arsenal of hot rollers, and lots and lots of curly. Plus I was a teenager. It was around this time that I was also introduced to the Black woman's beautiful lie--rather lye: the chemical relaxer. It only really meant that I spent less time with hot rollers every day. I didn't understand what my otherwise lightning fast-growing hair seemed to stop growing. Or why my I let the beautician leave the chemicals so long that my scalp burned.

In college I did the wash and wear thing (still relaxed). All that perming did a little number on my hair and my scalp, so out of necessity I grew my hair longish, only to cut it into cute little bobs every year or so. I even had short little bangs for a time, during my club kid phase.

So I was in a vicious cycle for several years. By the time Primo and I started dating I was trying to grow it long again, which I did. I even tried to grow out the perm, but my hair broke off, and I needed a hair cut to even it out. My hair was about mid back, but I had a patch of short damaged hair in the back. I had considered cutting it really short into a pixie do, but couldn't bring myself to do it.

Then one day Primo, who has some mighty nice hair himself, came home totally bald. We didn't match any more. So a week later I cut my hair to about an inch or so. It was the shortest I ever had it, and barring illness, that will be the last time I ever have short hair.



I started growing dreadlocks about eighteen months after I did that last big chop. I had sworn off all perms, I was getting married, I spent the summer reading about Rastafari. It was time for a change. I'm not about being cool. It just seemed like the natural thing to do. I won't get into my reasons for doing it otherwise. It's been almost 9 years since I put a brush or comb to my head, and while I occasionally trim the undreaded sides and the kitchen, I haven't had a haircut in almost 10 years. I wish I could give a deeper reason as to why I have long hair, or dreads, but like tattoos, I like to keep the skin deep stuff skin deep. I do it because at some point it seemed like a good idea, and creature of habit that I am, I'm sticking with a good thing.

So that's my hair. But I'm into all hair, particularly natural, unpermed hair on African Americans, facial hair on men, and extremely long hair on everyone. Intentional extreme length either way is a subtle act of rebellion against standards of beauty that require excessive amounts of valuable time, money, and pain (in the case of relaxing or perming), as is being nappy, or dreadlocked if you're black. People--and I'm talking about total strangers off the street--ask me if my hair is real or all mine, how long I've been growing it, when I'll cut it, etc. And apparently, there are certain people who shouldn't have long hair: men, women over 30, children, women under 30, boys. I used to frequent the Long Hair Community, and people heard all of these and more. Long hair, nappy hair, and dreadlocks offend people. Another reason to love them. If you're offended by a grooming regimen, you deserve to be offended. God blesses the freaks.

The Long Hair Community
Other Hair Sightings. Just a small sample. I have friends with beautiful hair, but I don't carry a camera with me.

Don't Stick Beads Up Your Nose

Ingrid learned a very important life lesson on Saturday, and we had a fun little trip to the local ER, because she put a bead in her nose. It was tragic but kind of funny. Ingrid is a trooper. She slept most of the time we were there, cried very little, and once the bead popped out, she insisted on holding it, ("mine! My bead" quoth Ingrid), and everyone laughed at the end of the ordeal. If this had happened to Bea, it would not have been funny at all. Bea does not do well with medical procedures. She was about 5 years old before she stopped screaming at the sight of a stethescope. And here's another example of how similar we are. When I was in nursing school, I cried when someone gave me a test injection--just saline, sub-acute, and I thought I would pee on myself I was so freaked out.
So how did Ingrid get a bead in her nose? I wasn't there, but apparently she was putting it in her nose, my husband caught her--surprised her, and she inhaled. It was lodged pretty far up there. So the husband brought the girls to JiffyCon where I was playing Best Friends, so Bea wouldn't have to go with us. I went home to get the insurance card, and met them at the ER. They took us in pretty quickly, and Ingrid slept until they started the first attempt to get the bead out. The doctor, Dr. G, looked like he could be my husband's brother or cousin. Tall, long blond curly hair, big nose, Scandinavian looking, very handsome. This just added another surreal dimension to an already surreal morning. I had an urge to touch his hair, which tends to happen when I meet people who have nice hair. My intentions were harmless, but it probably would have been inappropriate.
First he tried using a little vacuum to get it out. That didn't work, and the otherwise placid Ingrid got a bit upset by having a metal vacuum catheter stuck in her nose. Then Dr. G gave us two suggestions. He could either get the bead out with forcepts, or he would give us a very effective method of extracting things from children's nares. But we would have to do it ourselves. He would just kinda peek in from around the corner. Now I'm not sure if this was because the method was one of those tried and true methods that JHACO and insurance companies frown upon. But it sounded intriging, if not a little folky (and I'm all about the folk medicine). So here's what we did. If you or anyone you know, ever stick something up your nose and it gets stuck, you'll save yourself a trip to the emergency room. But please don't take this as medical advice, and this should not be a substitute for seeking medical care from a health care professional. I'm just a nursing school dropout and a mom. We told Ingrid that Papa was going to give her a funny kiss. I held her so she wouldn't squirm, and could feel secure. Papa closed one of her nostrils, made a good seal around her mouth with his, and blew really hard. And out popped the bead!
The whole procedure made Ingrid quite upset, but she was happy to get the bead out of her nose.
I missed playing Best Friends, unfortunately, but Ingrid was happy and didn't seem traumatized by the ordeal. My husband and Bea went to pick up the new dog, and all was right with the world again.

Speaking of new dogs, he has a name, Bea is $10 richer, and we both learned a valuable lesson in creative negotiations and compromise. Our new dog's name is.....

Jeddy, as in Jed + Buddy = Jeddy. And yes, I call him Jed.

Speaking of Collecting...

I noticed today that the little basket where I keep all my hair toys is getting a little crowded. It's not usually so bad, but I'm only missing two. So I took a little inventory. Now before I expose myself as having an excessive number of hair accessories, please note, I probably wear at least one a day, often two to four. With classic length (past the butt) dreads, I don't generally wear my hair completely down before 5 pm on weekdays. Otherwise, I get tangled in stuff, I slam my hair in the car door, I sit on it, it falls in the toilet, gets in my face, other people's faces, entangles children, may get caught in machinery, you get the picture. So here are the fancy little objects that make my hair easier to deal with.
In picture 1:
Top left--Plastic octopus clip.
Top Center and down--Brass Floog, then four vintage kanzashi. The top one might be ivory. I have another one that is like the bottom one, but has rectangular ends of tortoise shell. It's currently MIA.
Bottom row--large bird of paradise fork, titanium fork, large Ficcare.

In picture 2: Left to right-- Green hairstick. I have a purple matching one, but it's MIA; wooden stick, aka "Vampire Slayer stake"; stainless steel sticks; radish sticks from China; blown glass size 11 knitting needles with dichroic twirls on the ends (yes, knitting needles! You never know when a skein of bulky yarn will fall out of the sky, and you'll be forced to knit a hat. Best to be prepared.); two pair of chopsticks given to me by Meg (thanks, Meg!); big sturdy zebrawood sticks made for me by the woodworking guy from the Greenfield Farmers Market.

In picture 3: Top left to right--wooden hair slide, made by the same woman who made the green (and MIA purple) stick; three hair screws custom made for dreads by A very nice lady; the token pony tail holder, much like the ones you find all over the house mostly by husband and kids (I have a great big one in my locker at the Y. I'm not really a ponytail wearer. I like half up-dos, front ends pulled back, loaf-like buns); cool leather hair wrap given to me by Meg (thanks, Meg!).
Sometimes, certain other parents in the household leave the scissors in the hair toy basket. I can think of better places to put the scissors, but one must keep a sense of humor about these things.

Yes, that is a very dirty chair.

Two toasted sesame seeds in a bowl of white rice

Preface: it was a great end to a beautiful day, one of the best concerts I've seen in a while, and Carrie Rodriguez and Chip Taylor are wonderfully kind people.

Went on a date with the husband last night. Had a delicious platter of sushi and glass of sake. Forgot to order octopus (tee hee). Then we met some of the husband's co-workers at Packard's for their bocce league season wrap up party. I admitted to one of his co-workers that I still have Ingrid's placenta in my freezer (gotta do something about that...) I went home early, because we had a new babysitter. An awesome babysitter! Anyway, I stayed up late, and woke up late the next morning.
Went to the farmer's market 1/2 an hour late and set up my table. Had a great time, saw the usual suspects, lamented with many folks about how much we're going to miss going to or working the market. Beautiful weather, made $26, and met lots of nice folks. I even got to give a couple of herbal product schpiels. Later, a woman came up to me and asked one of the hair FAQs I get asked: Is that all your real hair? Yup. "Wow!" She said, "If I could grow hair like that, I'd throw a perm in it and make it nice and straight." Um, uh, yeah. I smiled and nodded. Not even worth it. I took it as some sort of compliment, and wrote what she said since it tickled me so much. Lord bless her and help her.

Went to the toy store with Bea to get birthday presents for her friends. We have 2 parties this weekend. Whew! We missed a harvest party at Meg's sister's farm in Plainfield, but for good reasons. I can't be two places at once, and I was to cook for the bands at our coffee house, gave up on the idea of crock pot curry (or anything else from scratch), and resorted to fine frozen lasagne's from BJ's, salad, breadsticks, and grapes. Went over just fine, and many praised my cooking, or rather my ability to pick out good frozen entrees, and not burn them when I cook them. The concert was great, I got my CD's autographed, heard a chillingly beautiful version of "Angel of the Morning" that took my breath away, adored Carrie Rodriguez's fiddle playing, her cool mandobird playing, and her awesome red boots.

And somewhere in all the fun I realized Bea and I were the only black folks in the entire crowd (at least 250 people). I really hate it when that happens, and it really bummed me out. Not enough to ruin the night, but enough to wish we lived somewhere like Atlanta for the rest of the evening. Alas.