I am no eco-warrior, but I am devoted to avoiding disposable plastic. My deodorant comes in a cardboard tube like those push pops we used to get as kids. I use chewable tablets from a small paper sack instead of toothpaste in a tube and buy cooking staples from bulk stores in the same paper bags I filled the first time I shopped there. Our pantry is largely stocked with those items decanted into mason jars, and only a few things I cannot find package free. Where I fail is identifying as a bluehead. I have had blue hair on and off for over 30 years, and that's how everyone here has ever known me. The one time I tried going back to my natural dark brown hues was literally jarring so while I do not think of myself as a vain woman, I do require that one little plastic pot.
Until I turned sixty, the most radical thing I'd done to or put on my body was the bright-yellow-with-red-circles, hip-hugger bell bottoms I made when I was fourteen. We all learned to sew, us girls in junior high during the late sixties, because we were required to take home economics. The first half of the year was cooking. The second half, sewing. The boys had wood shop and mechanics. Never the twain met--girls weren't allowed to take shop, and no boy who didn't want to get laughed out of the school asked to take home ec. So I learned to sew and cook and, always, to be A Good Little Girl who aspired to grow up to be A Good Wife. Which was all the good it did me. My first marriage lasted only six years and I was the one who left. So turned the Good Little Girl into something for which there is no name but is known, simply, as Herself. When Herself approached her sixtieth birthday, she decided she needed a tattoo. Maybe she remembered how delicious it felt to wear those ridiculous pants. So we, Herself and I, had a three-inch long and 2-inch wide quill pen tattooed on the left shoulder. We were so proud of Ourselves. We still are.
My father was a well-known hairstylist, coming from a family of hairstylists. And he was also a performer, travelling the country doing hair shows for a beauty product business and prided himself on his sense of style. My mother was a buyer for a department store and a fashion maven.
I on the other hand morphed into a full-blown bohemian at thirteen, of course eschewing any notion or element of style or ornamentation. Black stocking, skirts, turtlenecks and a wonderful black coat flecked with red, orange threads were my standard through to my 18th birthday. The coup de grace for my stylist parents was my unruly hair casually pulled up into a ponytail, tendrils of hair falling into my face and no makeup whatsoever.
My father requested I not visit the salon as it didn’t seem appropriate for the daughter of such an acclaimed hairstylist to look as I did. My mother on the other hand acknowledged that I was very beautiful but not making the most of myself. If only I would use some mascara, a little rouge and blue eye color I could look like Natalie Wood. This lament persisted even into my adult life and is probably why “ornamentation” and I have never made peace.
The topic, adornment, made me think of a wedding ring, how at first it seemed like more of an adornment to me—I who never wore rings. But eventually, it got so that it felt weird not to wear it; I "felt naked" without it. Sometime after the divorce, I eventually stopped wearing it.
Summer of '66. A neighborhood boy named Larry presented me with a clunky metal shoulder pin adorned with rhinestones set in a large leaf pattern. He was a junior in high school, and I was fourteen going on fifteen. His mother's pin, I wondered? I accepted the hefty gift with honest surprise and hid the pin in my jewelry box. When school started, Larry invited me to the first mixer. His mother drove because he didn't have a driver's license yet. All through the night, he leaned in but never got up the nerve to kiss me. That pin and no kiss. I told him I wanted to date other guys. And yet, the pin that has never adorned my shoulder still adorns my jewelry box as testimony to a sweet guy's first love. Me.
An early memory I have is her showing me the long vertical scar that starts at her navel. “See this? They sliced me open to get you out.” She seemed to detest the scar, and later I decided it was a painful reminder of burdens she bore after childbirth, like a failed marriage and shattered dreams.
I too have a scarred belly, not associated with sadness but joy. Still, my skin burned and itched as its fibers pulled apart, engraving deep red tracks into my swelling, later deflated abdomen. I have the type of body that shows its experience, whether it’s scars that never fade, eyebrows plucked in a fit which never grew back, or a few weathered tattoos on my aging skin. I’ll still slather my face with serums and creams but at this point those outward mementos of life are something I’d rather cherish than hide in remorse.
She says, “We don’t need more honey, Hon. We have enough olive oil. And don’t buy a leg of ham.” She knows I am heading to a haircut with Emilio, my barber in Granada. Emilio has been cutting hair for over 35 years. A real pro’s pro. I’m glad I found his barbershop. It has been one of life’s little enhancements. I trust his haircuts so by extension I trust his gourmet foods side-hustle he runs out of a closet in his hole-in-the-wall shop. What’s better than 30 minutes spent getting a trim and buying artisanal honey and small-batch organic olive oil from Montefrío? I am a staunch supporter of the side-hustle. Sometimes that second gig is your true passion. When Emilio messages telling me he has the finest walnuts, I won’t refuse. I know she’ll be glad I am buying ten kilos worth. That will last us a while.
In 1989 Lisa Bonet was all the rage. Her ankle length braids were a thing of beauty to this 24 year old woman. Her bohemian wardrobe was everything I loved. Velvet, paisleys, berets and beads.
My hair was almost to the top of my butt the day I decided that I, too, wanted ankle length braids. I found a beauty supply store in Baltimore City and bought a plastic wrapped bundle of synthetic, brown hair that measured 30 inches in length. I had my friend Andrianna cornrow my real hair into 20 rows. Then I made the same amount of braids with the synthetic hair. We then attached them with intricate, metal dreadlock adornments. Voila! Instant Lisa Bonet ankle length hair.
That, along with my leg hair that I shaved into barber shop pole swirls, always garnered varied comments from people on the street, but in my head, it was an attempt to show my love of the beauty of one Ms. Bonet.
Chronic indecision railroaded any of my young adult tattoo ambitions. In high school, I sat for an entire day in a biker tattoo joint out in Glen Bernie flipping through their endless choices of hearts, skulls, and foxy ladies, as well as isolating design elements from an Alphonse Mucha book I'd brought along. I'm rather glad that by my early 20s I'd given up the notion of having any tattoos at all - no more entertaining tribal bands or woven thorns wrapped around an arm or ankle, no lotus on my lower back or the ones an ex-boyfriend designed for me. Priding myself on my skin being naked and unadorned. Now in my 50's, I am certain of what may be my first and only tattoo-- a black, photo realistic portrait with a circular frame of my first dog, Ellie, who passed away in August. But, do I include the words "Ride or Die" or "Furever Love" ?
As a teenager, I was obsessed with W magazine. At the time it was actually a colorful newspaper. I put the pictures and beautiful full page ads on my bedroom walls. Some pictures were sleek chiseled men while others were my favorite designers' clothes. I loved Ralph Lauren, Dior, Calvin Klein, YSL, Donna Karan. My favorite clothes were perfect for small chested, lean women. Sadly, I was not flat chested or particularly thin, curvy was more accurate.
My family could afford a W magazine subscription, but nothing that was for sale in the magazine. Mom had taught me to sew and when we had a coupon I could get a Vogue pattern. They had designer patterns and I would plan my projects on a budget. There was a Donna Karan skirt and blouse, a Calvin Klein pleated skirt, and an elegant little black dress from YSL. I felt so cool but I never told any one. None of my peers cared about these designers, their cute Jordache jeans were high fashion.
I was asked to go to the prom in my junior year and I knew the perfect pattern! It was a pink taffeta dress with this really pretty lace overlay on the bodice and about 25 little pink satin buttons on the back. My mom helped me with the dress and I felt so cool. After my parents took pictures of us, we walked out to the car. I sat down and felt a "pop pop pop" on my back with a vague coolness. I chose denial until we got to the prom, then a long night. I don't remember that designer...Sometimes adornment can be disappointing.
I had to think a while what I could contribute to the topic of 'adornment', as for me it has no great significance - at least in the actual sense of 'wearing adornments'. But that is exactly my starting point. Three years ago my partner wanted to offer me a piece of jewelry for my birthday. We went to a shopping center and I entered a store; my partner was just in another shop. And my eyes fell on THEM: they shimmered to me in their light mint green. I touched them, and the material felt sturdy but delicate. Then I tried them on. This was exactly my piece of jewelry! But: it wasn't a piece of jewelry in the actual sense, but they were running shoes. I left the shopping mall satisfied with my jewels. And I could hardly wait for these new running shoes to adorn my feet.
I got my fist tattoo at 19. The next one at 21. This was a large piece by an icon on a friends kitchen table. It is the wheel of fortune grime the rider Waite deck, illustrated by Pamela Colman Smith (or Pixie). This was a time before it was a norm. People would often feel compelled to want to touch it, comment and get in my space. This was unwelcome. And would make me angry. I chose and still do, how and what to adorn my body permanently. I’ve made peace that adornment would bring attention, and as I accepted that my adornment was differing me from others, I stopped being so upset about people’s reaction. Certainly because my understanding was aligned with the popularity of tattooing. Who knows but all my children are tattooed, and I found out my dad got one too. The same fella that said “Why would you ever scar your body?”
I am no eco-warrior, but I am devoted to avoiding disposable plastic. My deodorant comes in a cardboard tube like those push pops we used to get as kids. I use chewable tablets from a small paper sack instead of toothpaste in a tube and buy cooking staples from bulk stores in the same paper bags I filled the first time I shopped there. Our pantry is largely stocked with those items decanted into mason jars, and only a few things I cannot find package free. Where I fail is identifying as a bluehead. I have had blue hair on and off for over 30 years, and that's how everyone here has ever known me. The one time I tried going back to my natural dark brown hues was literally jarring so while I do not think of myself as a vain woman, I do require that one little plastic pot.
Until I turned sixty, the most radical thing I'd done to or put on my body was the bright-yellow-with-red-circles, hip-hugger bell bottoms I made when I was fourteen. We all learned to sew, us girls in junior high during the late sixties, because we were required to take home economics. The first half of the year was cooking. The second half, sewing. The boys had wood shop and mechanics. Never the twain met--girls weren't allowed to take shop, and no boy who didn't want to get laughed out of the school asked to take home ec. So I learned to sew and cook and, always, to be A Good Little Girl who aspired to grow up to be A Good Wife. Which was all the good it did me. My first marriage lasted only six years and I was the one who left. So turned the Good Little Girl into something for which there is no name but is known, simply, as Herself. When Herself approached her sixtieth birthday, she decided she needed a tattoo. Maybe she remembered how delicious it felt to wear those ridiculous pants. So we, Herself and I, had a three-inch long and 2-inch wide quill pen tattooed on the left shoulder. We were so proud of Ourselves. We still are.
My father was a well-known hairstylist, coming from a family of hairstylists. And he was also a performer, travelling the country doing hair shows for a beauty product business and prided himself on his sense of style. My mother was a buyer for a department store and a fashion maven.
I on the other hand morphed into a full-blown bohemian at thirteen, of course eschewing any notion or element of style or ornamentation. Black stocking, skirts, turtlenecks and a wonderful black coat flecked with red, orange threads were my standard through to my 18th birthday. The coup de grace for my stylist parents was my unruly hair casually pulled up into a ponytail, tendrils of hair falling into my face and no makeup whatsoever.
My father requested I not visit the salon as it didn’t seem appropriate for the daughter of such an acclaimed hairstylist to look as I did. My mother on the other hand acknowledged that I was very beautiful but not making the most of myself. If only I would use some mascara, a little rouge and blue eye color I could look like Natalie Wood. This lament persisted even into my adult life and is probably why “ornamentation” and I have never made peace.
The topic, adornment, made me think of a wedding ring, how at first it seemed like more of an adornment to me—I who never wore rings. But eventually, it got so that it felt weird not to wear it; I "felt naked" without it. Sometime after the divorce, I eventually stopped wearing it.
Summer of '66. A neighborhood boy named Larry presented me with a clunky metal shoulder pin adorned with rhinestones set in a large leaf pattern. He was a junior in high school, and I was fourteen going on fifteen. His mother's pin, I wondered? I accepted the hefty gift with honest surprise and hid the pin in my jewelry box. When school started, Larry invited me to the first mixer. His mother drove because he didn't have a driver's license yet. All through the night, he leaned in but never got up the nerve to kiss me. That pin and no kiss. I told him I wanted to date other guys. And yet, the pin that has never adorned my shoulder still adorns my jewelry box as testimony to a sweet guy's first love. Me.
An early memory I have is her showing me the long vertical scar that starts at her navel. “See this? They sliced me open to get you out.” She seemed to detest the scar, and later I decided it was a painful reminder of burdens she bore after childbirth, like a failed marriage and shattered dreams.
I too have a scarred belly, not associated with sadness but joy. Still, my skin burned and itched as its fibers pulled apart, engraving deep red tracks into my swelling, later deflated abdomen. I have the type of body that shows its experience, whether it’s scars that never fade, eyebrows plucked in a fit which never grew back, or a few weathered tattoos on my aging skin. I’ll still slather my face with serums and creams but at this point those outward mementos of life are something I’d rather cherish than hide in remorse.
She says, “We don’t need more honey, Hon. We have enough olive oil. And don’t buy a leg of ham.” She knows I am heading to a haircut with Emilio, my barber in Granada. Emilio has been cutting hair for over 35 years. A real pro’s pro. I’m glad I found his barbershop. It has been one of life’s little enhancements. I trust his haircuts so by extension I trust his gourmet foods side-hustle he runs out of a closet in his hole-in-the-wall shop. What’s better than 30 minutes spent getting a trim and buying artisanal honey and small-batch organic olive oil from Montefrío? I am a staunch supporter of the side-hustle. Sometimes that second gig is your true passion. When Emilio messages telling me he has the finest walnuts, I won’t refuse. I know she’ll be glad I am buying ten kilos worth. That will last us a while.
In 1989 Lisa Bonet was all the rage. Her ankle length braids were a thing of beauty to this 24 year old woman. Her bohemian wardrobe was everything I loved. Velvet, paisleys, berets and beads.
My hair was almost to the top of my butt the day I decided that I, too, wanted ankle length braids. I found a beauty supply store in Baltimore City and bought a plastic wrapped bundle of synthetic, brown hair that measured 30 inches in length. I had my friend Andrianna cornrow my real hair into 20 rows. Then I made the same amount of braids with the synthetic hair. We then attached them with intricate, metal dreadlock adornments. Voila! Instant Lisa Bonet ankle length hair.
That, along with my leg hair that I shaved into barber shop pole swirls, always garnered varied comments from people on the street, but in my head, it was an attempt to show my love of the beauty of one Ms. Bonet.
Chronic indecision railroaded any of my young adult tattoo ambitions. In high school, I sat for an entire day in a biker tattoo joint out in Glen Bernie flipping through their endless choices of hearts, skulls, and foxy ladies, as well as isolating design elements from an Alphonse Mucha book I'd brought along. I'm rather glad that by my early 20s I'd given up the notion of having any tattoos at all - no more entertaining tribal bands or woven thorns wrapped around an arm or ankle, no lotus on my lower back or the ones an ex-boyfriend designed for me. Priding myself on my skin being naked and unadorned. Now in my 50's, I am certain of what may be my first and only tattoo-- a black, photo realistic portrait with a circular frame of my first dog, Ellie, who passed away in August. But, do I include the words "Ride or Die" or "Furever Love" ?
As a teenager, I was obsessed with W magazine. At the time it was actually a colorful newspaper. I put the pictures and beautiful full page ads on my bedroom walls. Some pictures were sleek chiseled men while others were my favorite designers' clothes. I loved Ralph Lauren, Dior, Calvin Klein, YSL, Donna Karan. My favorite clothes were perfect for small chested, lean women. Sadly, I was not flat chested or particularly thin, curvy was more accurate.
My family could afford a W magazine subscription, but nothing that was for sale in the magazine. Mom had taught me to sew and when we had a coupon I could get a Vogue pattern. They had designer patterns and I would plan my projects on a budget. There was a Donna Karan skirt and blouse, a Calvin Klein pleated skirt, and an elegant little black dress from YSL. I felt so cool but I never told any one. None of my peers cared about these designers, their cute Jordache jeans were high fashion.
I was asked to go to the prom in my junior year and I knew the perfect pattern! It was a pink taffeta dress with this really pretty lace overlay on the bodice and about 25 little pink satin buttons on the back. My mom helped me with the dress and I felt so cool. After my parents took pictures of us, we walked out to the car. I sat down and felt a "pop pop pop" on my back with a vague coolness. I chose denial until we got to the prom, then a long night. I don't remember that designer...Sometimes adornment can be disappointing.
I had to think a while what I could contribute to the topic of 'adornment', as for me it has no great significance - at least in the actual sense of 'wearing adornments'. But that is exactly my starting point. Three years ago my partner wanted to offer me a piece of jewelry for my birthday. We went to a shopping center and I entered a store; my partner was just in another shop. And my eyes fell on THEM: they shimmered to me in their light mint green. I touched them, and the material felt sturdy but delicate. Then I tried them on. This was exactly my piece of jewelry! But: it wasn't a piece of jewelry in the actual sense, but they were running shoes. I left the shopping mall satisfied with my jewels. And I could hardly wait for these new running shoes to adorn my feet.
I got my fist tattoo at 19. The next one at 21. This was a large piece by an icon on a friends kitchen table. It is the wheel of fortune grime the rider Waite deck, illustrated by Pamela Colman Smith (or Pixie). This was a time before it was a norm. People would often feel compelled to want to touch it, comment and get in my space. This was unwelcome. And would make me angry. I chose and still do, how and what to adorn my body permanently. I’ve made peace that adornment would bring attention, and as I accepted that my adornment was differing me from others, I stopped being so upset about people’s reaction. Certainly because my understanding was aligned with the popularity of tattooing. Who knows but all my children are tattooed, and I found out my dad got one too. The same fella that said “Why would you ever scar your body?”