Me, Too

16 10 2017

Endemic refers to the constant presence of a disease or infectious agent in a population within a geographic area. Hyperendemic refers to persistent, high levels of disease occurrence. Next is epidemic, which, if you google it, you’ll find that refers to an increase of a thing – disease, condition, etc. -and that it’s actually not a fixed percentage.  And a pandemic is an epidemic that has reached several countries or continents.

Semantics really.  And I guess whether you want to call sexual harassment and assault an endemic (because it’s consistently happened to a certain percentage of people) or a hyperendemic, (because the percentage of people affected is considered persistent and high level) or an epidemic (because you believe it wasn’t so prevalent 50 years ago, and we are just now hitting an all time high within our population), or a pandemic (because, hey, this shit happens to a high percentage of the population on every fucking continent), it matters not a whit to me… so long as we can agree that there’s a problem.  And after hearing several friends who have responded in total shock of seeing their feeds explode with “Me, too”, well, that just illustrates that neat little bullet point statistics don’t always do much to combat an issue.

How many of you can rattle off that 1 in every 3 or 4 women has been assaulted, or that 1 in 6 is likely to have been raped? But like every other problem in the universe, if it hasn’t happened anecdotally (that is, to ourselves or someone we know) then unfortunately human nature helps us to diminish it, or worse, to dismiss it all together.

I spent a 24 hour period attempting to track my Facebook friends (all 1260-something of them) who responded “Me, too” as a way to shine a light onto how prevalent the problem is, especially with the media showering us all with yet another powerful man being investigated for his years of assaults against women.   There were 164 of them in 24 hours.  Lemme say that again for the people in the back.  In a 24 hour period on Facebook, I watched 164 people I actually know come forward and say that they have been sexually assaulted or harassed in their lifetime. That’s 13% of my Facebook friends, and if 13% of the people I personally know doesn’t sound like enough, let me put that a different way.  The US population is 325,000,000. 13% of the US population is roughly 42 million people. Or 5.5 million more people than the entire population of Canada. In the USA alone, we have sexually assaulted the equivalent of the entire population of Canada and then some.

1262 Facebook friends.  24 hours. 164 people echoing “Me, too.” 144 women, 2 people who don’t fit into a gender binary, and 18 men.  Each and every one of them someone I have met.  Me. My mom. Her friends. My entire inner circle of female friends.  Friends with doctorate level degrees. Friends with no degree at all.  And that number does not include at least a few people who didn’t post “Me, too”, with whom I am close enough to personally to know  that they had a front row seat to this shit.  But they didn’t speak up (and it is absolutely not in their job description to do so), so I left them out of my count. However, they raise an important point: the “missing” folks show that not only is this issue still underreported as a whole, but that elements of society still view it as the victim’s job to speak out, and then, often dismisses them (or worse) when they do speak up. THINK ABOUT THAT FOR A MINUTE. WE CAN’T COUNT EVERYBODY YET BECAUSE THERE IS STILL SUCH A FUCKING STIGMA OF FEAR AND SOCIETAL RETRIBUTION ABOUT IT THAT NOT EVERYONE IS TALKING ABOUT IT… EVEN NOW.

So where do we go from here?  Honestly, I have no idea.  I know this much to be true:  Not everyone survives it.  And those who do walk away with dents and scratches and hurts that go deep into your brain and make you wonder about who you are, and if you “deserved” it.  Because that’s the dark side of human ego (unless you’re a sociopath) – that the shadow puppet nightmares that peek out of the shadowy corners of our brains are typically created by real monsters and assholes and traumatic experiences from things that actually go bump in the night.

I can tell you this though… there is a pattern.  Every person whose name I came across had a “tell”.  And that “tell” is that they (all 164 names) are interesting people, many of them strong, many of them unerringly magnetic to others. Why? Dunno. But my hunch is that whatever cracks that shit leaves in you acts like a beacon, because surviving it means that your flame still burns, and it draws others in like moths to a flame.  So, my dear flames, talk to the moths you gather.  Find amongst you the other “Me, too’s” in this world, by shining your light onto this issue, again, and again, and again, until everyone can crawl out from the corners and talk about it.  #TeamHuman means ALL OF US.

Secondly, a guy named Darwin had a theory about “survival of the fittest.” You (and the “you” here is directed towards monstrous people who require the axis of power tilted their way, because that’s what rape and assault are they are assertions of power…) do you want rape and assault to be the normative pandemic of our time?  Go ahead.  Keep those stats high, because what you are doing is making a fucking army of strong people who’ve survived to burn brighter than we ever did before. Survival of the fucking fittest, and we are legion.



The Faire-y Files: Borrowed Buggies

3 07 2017

If I ever get around to actually publishing a book or something, a lot of my material comes to me straight out of the mouths of… well… my customers, the world around me, um, frankly EVERYONE. I find lots of what people say strange and hilarious (maybe that’s just the way my artist’s brain takes in the world around me.) But I feel like the bar is higher for this particular blog post because:  (1) last month my BFF and I were doing our usual “running my booth together thing” at the TN Faire. We were told by several people this year, “Hey, no kiddin’ – we stop here every year because you two are the funniest act at this Faire.” Considering there are stage acts at that show (and every other Ren Faire in the world) who specialize in humor? Ya. Bar feels high. (2) There is now a published author who reads my blog.  EEEEEK. (Hi Laura.) (3) I haven’t blogged a Faire-y Tale story in a year and I feel rusty.  It’s hard to explain the absurdity of my world, and my weird job to people who go to my day job for their “day-cations“.  So “once more into the breach” and all that happy greeting card crap, right? (4) Someone informed me that one of my blog articles cost them a keyboard because of sprayed coffee while laughing… I mean, I don’t want to be a record holding keyboard mangler, but that compliment alone was… intense. Maybe the world views me just as funny as I view it.

I was driving home from Faire late one Sunday night about six years ago, in a borrowed car that I was trying to purchase. The seller was being a bit slow with paperwork, and although I didn’t like the idea of borrowing a car for interstate travel before I owned it, it was one of those things that was really unavoidable that weekend in particular.  I also had my mutt, Guinness with me.


He’s part Wookie, part Ewok, and basically my funny little sidekick with genius comedic timing.  At the time, he didn’t have a seatbelt.  He had a 6 gallon milk crate that I inherited at a garage sale, and Ren-gineered into his car seat. (“Ren-gineered” being a term that means a Rennie made it with materials that have no right being used in the manner they are, and that said Rennie probably got all of their engineering experience from having dated an engineer at one time. And yet, often the constructed object in question generally works fine.)

This day (which shall now live in infamy forever) is the reason Guinness now has a doggie seatbelt (visible in the photo above) that clips into the back of his harness. Well, that, and I don’t want him hitting a windshield at mumblety-thump mph if I get in a wreck.

I drove home that night in my garb, because Faire ran late, and it was about a 4-5 hour drive home. I had to stop for gas on the way, and, as per my usual, stuck my cell phone into the top of my corset out of habit.  (Many thanks to David Vail for the amazing photo below.)

As I was pumping my gas, Guinness leapt over onto the driver’s seat to scope out why we’ve stopped.  And stepped firmly on the auto-lock button.  Now, to recap: Borrowed car, so title, registration, etc are all not in my name.  Spare key with the owner, about 3 hours/200 miles away. No AAA.  And the gas station was closing in 45 minutes (it’s was a Sunday night in the middle-of-nowhere).

I said a string of Very Naughty Words and asked the gas station attendant if perhaps, they had a slim-jim door unlocker thinger behind the counter. He did not.  I received inept help from a lovely passerby with a coat hanger and mansplaining tendencies. After he left, I now had scratches on the door of the borrowed car.  With no other options I could think of, and with it getting later by the minute, I called 911.

“Hi, I am super sorry to be calling.  I understand that my emergency is low priority, but my dog just locked himself in my car at a gas station, and I’m 200 miles from home.  Is there an officer in the area not busy doing real police work tonight that could pop my lock?” (Now, I don’t recommend this course of action.  Seriously, if I had had ANY OTHER OPTION… I wouldn’t have called them.  But apparently a “live animal in a locked car” is an actual – if Very Low Level – emergency.)

92 minutes later, Officer Friendly (O.F.) shows up.  I try really really hard not to judge people on appearances, but to say this gent probably could’ve attended Woodstock as a late-blooming college student, with a physique that would make it impossible to chase down anyone on foot (even me, and I’m lucky to run a 10 minute mile at my best) would be visually accurate. And I’ve already mentioned how my brain works – I filter a high proportion of what I say… typically. But when you stir in exhaustion from a busy work weekend dealing with hundreds if not thousands of people, a long drive made longer by my own damn stupidity, and concern for my dog?… The force required for holding back snarky comments delivered a la Wednesday Addams deadpan with a smoky jazz lounge singer’s voice was EPIC.

O.F.: Examining my outfit from top to bottom, pausing long enough at my cleavage to be inappropriate, despite the fact that said cleavage is reasonably but decently displayed because ELIZABETHAN CORSET. “Your dog lock himself in the car, huh?”

Me: Yes, sirDude, dispatch had to have told you that.  And you can see my freaking idiot dog bouncing up and down in the driver’s seat in anticipation of meeting someone new.

O.F.: May I see your license ma’am?

Me: It’s in my wallet, sir, (points to purse, sitting Very Evidently on middle seat, inside locked vehicle.) 

O.F.: Where were you headed tonight?

Me: sigh. Didn’t dispatch ALSO tell you this? Home, sir.  Akron area. Ohio. I still have about 2.5 hours of driving ahead of me.  (hint hint… can we get this show on the road already, please?)

O.F.: Well, lemme get my fjdskalfdsg. (unintelligible, yet probably proper name for slim-jim door unlocker thingy aka the SJDUT.)

He walks back to the car with his SJDUT.  Pauses at the sight of Guinness, who has started licking the freaking window in abject joy that the new person is almost within reach of meeting.

O.F.: Is he friendly? 

Me: Yes, sir. He’s 21 lbs on his best day sir, I think even you could probably take him… have you really met a quantity of mean dogs who lick and paw at windows with their tails wagging at a rate of “supersonic” when they spot you?

O.F.: Pausing, with the SJDUT in hand. You know you should grab your keys when you stop for gas.

Me: thank you, Captain Obvious. Yes sir.  I’m in the process of buying this car from a friend, sir.  I’ve never driven one with auto-locks before but I guarantee I will remember that in future sir.  

O.F.: You know the SJDUT may damage the door, right? 

Me: Yes, sir, but since the spare is with the friend in question, that leaves me with no choice.

He works on the door for a minute, pauses, and asks, “Where’s the friend live?”

Me: Sigh. Ohio, Sir, as the license plate will confirm.  And so you’re aware, the registration will of course match her name, not mine.  But I have my insurance card in my wallet if you need that for your notes, sir.  Please just open the dang door.

He jimmies the door, Guinness greets him with more kisses than the Pope’s ring has seen in a decade.

O.F.: He’s sure a friendly little thing, isn’t he.

Me: Yes, sir. Thank you sir.  Guinness, kennel.  (“Kennel” being the command that means “Get your ass into your milk crate on the passenger seat because you’re overdoing the greeting.”)

O.F.: Well behaved little dog too.

Me: Thank you sir.  Grabbing my keys from the ignition, and pulling out my license. Did you need the registration too, sir? I’ll need to grab that from the glove box. 

O.F.: Yes ma’am.

Me: leaning over Guinness to grab the registration and receiving a barrage of kisses myself. Here, sir.

Eons pass, wars are won, and novels are written while he examines my license and my friend’s registration Very Carefully before handing both back.

O.F.: … no actual words come forth, but he seems to be… waiting for something.  

Me: looking at the time on my cell phone which I’ve plucked out of my corset while O.F. was examining my paperwork, and realize I’ve been stuck at this gas station for nearly 2 hours. Thank you very much for unlocking my car, sir. Am I free to go sir? I’ve got a goodly bit of driving left tonight. 

O.F.: He makes another visual appraisal of me, this time pausing at my cleavage long enough that even Guinness takes notice that Time Has Stopped again.  Just one more question before you go ma’am…  – are you Amish?

Me: Closes eyes, takes deep breath. For the hairy love of Oedipus. Amish people don’t drive cars, SIR. Mennonites drive cars, and I hope for the safety and well-being of the local Amish community here, you are not dispatched any time that actual knowledge of said community is required.  At minimum, you’ll be on their prayer list.  And I don’t want them to think that you are representative of our “English ways” No, sir.  I work at a medieval theme park. 17th century? Queen Elizabeth? These are my work clothes.  

O.F.: …. blank stare wherein it’s clear he’s never heard of either the 17th century or Queen Elizabeth, although the stare breaks long enough for him to do another – although this time blessedly quick – visual sweep of my garb. Drive safely ma’am. He gestures in a way that makes it clear I’m free to go.

The End… but in the way of Disney movies, here’s the Easter egg scene:

So I’m retelling this over breakfast at the KY Ren Faire to much laughter, and get to the “Are you Amish” punchline, and T (a tall, voluptuous, and brassy lady who very much speaks her mind) pipes up, “You TOTALLY should have struck a pose and told him you work in Amish porn.” So I lower my voice from “smoky” to “come hither”, cock my eyebrows at the breakfast table crowd and say, “I work in Amish porn…” The table explodes in laughter over and over, with mass giggles and people holding their stomachs from laughing too hard, and then, because “the more you know…”

Fierce googling ensues to discover whether or not Amish porn exists…

Boobies in Politics

30 09 2015

I started this particular blog post about 3 years ago.  Amazing and frustrating how we continue to tread water over this issue. Boobies in politics, indeed.  And I refuse to answer on the grounds that I might incriminate myself if I’m referring to the so-called helmsman of the recent shouting match in politics or the actual subject matter at hand.  It’s a spiffy double entendre, if you’ll allow my ego to fly proudly for a moment, whatever my stated objective might ultimately be.

So – I have three general rules about blogging. One, don’t swear. Much. Two, don’t talk about politics. Much. And three, violate the first two tenets only when I think I have a reasonable and logical objective for doing so.

Today is that day. Dammit.

I totally don’t remember where I got the image from. If it’s yours, might I please borrow it for this post? IT’S AWESOME.

About 3 years ago I discovered a lump in my breast. No, I can’t really believe I’m taking the plunge and mentioning this in public, and yes,it’s been thoroughly checked out, but when I discovered it, I was in Florida, and, well, one of the downsides of having no health insurance is that it’s a lot harder to get seen by someone while one is traveling around the country making a living.

See, at the time (prior to Obamacare) I made too much to qualify for the local free clinic. And cash pay folks generally pay a LOT MORE (or did at the time) than what insurance companies payout for procedures.  If that’s not a sick twist of a still-not-great system, well… Anyway. Gods bless Planned Parenthood. They (at the time) had a sliding scale and they are medically recognized enough to have been able to give me that magical piece of paper one needs to penetrate the sanctum of specialists – a medical referral.

I don’t know what your politics are, and, in a pique of narcissism (hey, it’s my blog) I’m going to say I don’t really fecking care, because it’s tangential to this conversation. But assuming you disagree with my politics, I would ask you to think about the GOP’s recent stance on Planned Parenthood, and think about what that means directly to people like me. I am a human being, and it frustrates the everloving shite out of me that here in the United States, which is considered a first world nation, I was (and depending on how much I make in any given year), still am treated like a second class citizen based on my ability to pay for basic medical care, the costs of which are more per capita in the US than in any other first world nation.

Maybe someday I’ll be one boobie shy of a full roster (take that however you’d like) although I’ve had no more scares since then. But please know that 3 years ago, before “Obamacare” existed, I got in to see a doctor when I needed one and was able to pay the full fee they required at the time (which was a pretty big amount for me, but would have been unimaginably unaffordable if I had had to pay the full cash-pay fee). And I got in and got looked at because funding for healthcare organizations like theirs exists. Notice the use of the word “healthcare”.

End rant.

Yoga Dogs and Tear Gas

24 05 2012

There’s nothing like starting out one’s day with a little exercise. And because this thought was too long to form into a cleverly worded facebook status, I’m writing about it here, although it is in no way relevant to my glass business or anything, really.

It was just funny.

My dog, Guinness, is a funny little dude, incredibly intelligent, and a total clown.

In short, it seems like his total purpose in life is to bring joy and laughter to people. Since I’m the human he’s around most often, let’s just say I laugh a lot with him around. He has quirks too, that make him all the funnier. For example, if we have a laser pointer in the house, and he sees where we put it down, he will sit at the base of the bookshelf-table-dresser and look up longingly at the location he last saw us with the pointer. And then look at the floor by his toes. And then look at whoever was holding said pointer. And then repeat the entire cycle until we either a) ignore him for a good long time or b) pick up said pointer and honor his request.

Another quirky factoid about my dog: he loves my yoga mat. Whenever I pull it out for my morning yoga, he’s right there with some toy clutched in his mouth, writhing on his back in an ecstatic expression of doggie happiness.

The only hitch in the giddy-up is that my buddy Josh was at the studio yesterday, and so Guinness got a treat or two more than usual. And while I was in Down Dog (photo below) doing a few slow and meditative breaths, he wiggled up next to me, rolled over, and planted himself under my tummy so I had the south bound end of a north bound dog eyeballing me.

And then he farted.

I outweigh him by 150 lbs or so, and I really didn’t want to land on him. You can probably picture the rest of the story… me, trying to a) get out of the ick zone b) not land on my small dog while doing it and c) laughing so hard I nearly wet myself while trying not to inhale.

I’ll be checking my yoga mat for holes directly, and letting the military know that there’s a new version of tear gas (or would that be terrier gas?) available.

The Learning Curve

22 02 2012

A friend of mine once joked that he should need a passport to visit Ohio. (He lives in Florida.) At the time I sort of rolled my eyes at him and just laughed.

But it’s true. I’ve been here about a week now, and I’m feeling out of sorts and cultural shock on the scale of (almost but not quite) when I went to London. As in England.

For example, Florida drivers (on the whole) are very aggressive compared to drivers in other places I’ve lived. The closest I can compare them to is Massachusetts drivers, and (please don’t take this the wrong way, Floridians who read my blog), but there’s a reason MA drivers are referred to as “Mass-holes”. I got cut off in traffic more times hauling my very heavy trailer in the state of Florida than the whole rest of the trip combined. (That would include Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia in case you were curious. And assuming my memory is accurate.)

I LOVE my GPS in my phone. I think if I didn’t have it I really would go nuts driving around in the very heavy, very aggressive traffic trying to find a grocery store, oil change place, gas station, etc.

The wildlife has taken some getting used to. Apparently it’s unwise to cut through a deadfall of trees (because of the spiders, snakes, ticks and other Florida wildlife.) Which struck me as strange ’cause I used to go tromping around in the woods in other states I’ve lived (Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, and New Hampshire) all the time. Perhaps the weirdest part is the lizards. They’re everywhere. And they have a startle factor like mice. So although they’re not scary, per se, they do have a knack for making your heart skip a beat when they scuttle out of your line of sight or across the porch.

Here’s the most embarrassing one so far. There is an orange tree in the backyard of the house where I’m staying. I’m pretty good about knowing edible foods in the “wild” so to speak, and my philosophy is when the thing hanging on the tree is the same size, color, shape, and approximate smell of an orange, and the tree it’s hanging on looks like the groves of things you’ve been passing by for miles at a time, well, it must be an orange.

Except that it isn’t. It’s a thing called a wild lemon. And the hand squeezed juice I labored over this morning was, well, puckering. In a turn-your-face-inside-out kind of a way.

I’m sure I will learn more things about Florida as I live down here for the next several weeks. My two goals are pretty simple: I hope to not make a complete ass of myself when tripping over some local colloquialism or oddity of geography, and I hope to not get bitten by a snake. I’ve heard they have lots of them down here, and if there’s one thing that turns me into a screaming girl, it’s the sight of a snake.

Maybe I should start carrying a hoe?

Combat Scribing

27 01 2012

So we went to an SCA event last weekend. It was a lot of fun – Ian took a kumihimo class, and hung out with several ladies of the fiber guild after his class, working on his current cord-making project.

I headed straight for the scribes’ room, as I had to drop off a few award scrolls that were to be given out that evening in court. After geeking about all the other scribes’ scrolls that had been dropped off, and getting some geek over the scrolls I had done, the head scribe started to go through the scrolls received to make sure she had them all.

A Finished Scroll of Mine

It’s not all that unusual to have one scroll not turn up, but somehow, real life had intervened for three of the scrolls due to be given out that day. And that is where I come in. I’m what’s affectionately known as a “combat scribe”.

A High level Award Scroll I Made

There are two parts (generally speaking) to every award scroll: the calligraphy and the illumination. Calligraphy, is, well, calligraphy, or the text of the award. Illumination is anything that isn’t the text – usually a fancy first letter, or some gold leaf motif down the sidebar of the scroll, and so on. A lot of people (myself included) do both calligraphy and illumination, but some only do one or the other. People who are only illuminators make up what are called “scroll blanks”, which are basically painted scrolls that are ready and waiting for text. The head scribe (called a signet) usually has a selection of blanks on hand at any event in case of emergency. And we had three emergencies.

Scroll Blank

A combat scribe is someone who scribes under “fire”. When an award doesn’t show up, there is anywhere from a few hours window to 45 minutes in which it’s determined a scroll is not going to show up on time. And the clock is ticking. Within that timeframe, a combat scribe has to lay out the wording for the scroll, including the particulars like the recipient’s name, what they got the award for, the date, etc. and then do the calligraphy for the whole thing. Fast. And accurately. Out of every 10 people or so who do calligraphy for the SCA you may find 1-2 people who combat scribe.

Personally, I love it. I like the challenge of creating something that is aesthetically pleasing in a timed situation. It hones my skills like no self-timed re-creation at home can. A combat scribing situation is nothing I would ever wish for, as it means that someone typically had a scroll disaster or personal emergency crop up. But the secret part of myself hopes that when that situation does crop up at an event, that I’m there with my ink-stained fingers and scribal kit, ready to sit down and do battle.

Yeah, Well, Rapunzel Got Evicted.

22 01 2012

So you’re stuck with me today.

I have really long, fine, stick straight hair.

It’s about down to my bum, actually, and with every inch that it grows, I end up with more and more funny stories about it.

For example, I was in line at a convenience store last week, I was wearing a fleece top, and it was cold, so my hair was sticking to about everything in sight. This lady in line behind me fished something out of her purse, and my hair must have liked it, because when she went to zip up her purse, I felt that distinct tug that told me my hair was getting stuck in or to something. Again. I turned around and took custody of my wayward locks, and she started apologizing all over herself for not noticing. I thought it was funny, and said so, and realizing that no harm had been done, she joined me in a chuckle.

That’s just one of the anecdotes I can share about my hair. The real focus of today’s soundbite is this: Long hair hasn’t been fashionable since the 70’s, and with the saturation of ads today touting the scrubbing of all your parts everyday, I wanted to toss my hat in to the ring, and explain some long hair stuff that seems to work for me. Most of this might go against the fashionable grain, but as my hairdresser (who I imagine has a bit of experience with this sort of thing, since she’s been doing it as an occupation all her life, and she’s in her mid 50’s to early sixties) says my hair is the healthiest long hair she has ever seen in her career, I think that gives me a leg to stand on regarding my hair care routine.

So here’s my advice, and hey, if it works for you, Mazel Tov!

Wash it as little as possible
Yes, you read that right. I was the whole of my hair about once a week. Otherwise, your ends get frizzy and fried, and split prematurely. When I wash my hair, I shampoo the hair that actually touches my head, down to about the first vertebra below my hairline. The rest I don’t actually shampoo – just letting the shampoo from my head wash through the rest of my locks is usually cleansing enough.

Use good conditioner. This is one of those instances where “good” conditioner usually equates to spending a little more money. But in my experience, you get what you pay for, and stuff that is thin and washes right out does not help a comb go through my hair post-shower. I use Aussie’s 3 minute miracle, and a bottle lasts about 2-3 months. (Hey, if you’re only using it once a week, it goes a long way!)

Apply the conditioner from about the first vertebrae below your hairline down the rest of the length of your hair, and then finger comb the part that’s conditioned until you can comb it without hitting any snags. Rinse the conditioner out with slightly cooler water than your normal shower temperature – super hot water seems to make hair snarly, which negates any conditioning you just did…

Comb it, then do it up
Comb all your hair out when you get out of the shower, then figure out a way to do up all or part of it so it doesn’t affect you sleeping on it. Keeping it up during the night and not fussing with it much on a daily basis is what keeps it from getting prematurely greasy. Milkmaid braids, a side french braid, ponytail by night-hairsticks by day, whatever works to keep it a bit contained will help. (All the photos in this article are ideas for how to put it up and keep it up.)

Get it trimmed regularly
I get my hair trimmed about every 10-12 weeks, and I keep the trim to whatever my hairdresser recommends – usually about half an inch or less. It really cuts down (no pun intended) on the split ends.

When I’m in a dry or dusty environment, or have been on the road for awhile, I get stressed out, and that begins to stress my hair out. I can tell (and I don’t know that I can explain it well, but I’ll try…) When the last 3-4″ of my hair starts to feel like it’s kind of frizzy, or straw-like, or when I pull a hair elastic out of the bottom of a ponytail and it grabs up a lot of hair with it, rather than sliding nicely out, then it’s time for some hair TLC. Warning: It’s messy, so have an plastic bag or two ready… Mix olive oil and honey together until you get a toothpaste sort of consistency, then microwave it until it’s warm. (Not hot – you should be able to stick your fingers in and keep them there without it burning them…) Mix it again when heated, and it should now be the consistency of thick soup. Dunk all of your hair that you can fit into the honey-oil mixture, up to about 4″ below your natural hairline at the back of your neck. Slip your hair into the plastic bag and hold it on there for about 20 minutes. Then wash your hair out normally and don’t over shampoo it – it will feel super conditioned, and may need an extra wash the next day as the excess olive oil is released.

Good luck 🙂 and here are some great sites for further information: