So, the other day, I said that I was going to make some pumpkin muffins for me and the girls. Far be it from me to break a promise. While I do enjoy cooking, I would much rather consume baked good than make them. Baking is so scientific. Sure, with cooking you do have to measure out your ingredients so that you have the right quantities, but I’ve found that you really have to be precise when baking. With cooking, I can eyeball stuff, add a dash of this, a touch of that. If my spaghetti sauces is missing something, I throw in a few pinches of sugar or garlic or a splash of red wine (SN: when does wine not make anything better?). With baking, you can’t really ad lib once something is cooked. If you make a banana bread and forget the bananas, you can’t really mash up the banana and shove it in the bread. Or if you bake a pie and feel like it needs more cinnamon/nuts/raisins/whatever, you can’t lift off the crust and toss them in. Well, I guess you could, but I doubt any guests you have would want to sample a pie that looks like someone lifted off the crust, messed with the insides and then put the crust back on. Maybe if they were really, really, hungry.

Really, hungry.

In the past, I’ve grumbled that my kitchen was not the twin to the GE Monogram kitchen on Top Chef, but the last few weeks have made me glad of that fact. The close proximity of the fridge, range, counter and pantry has made it easier for me to navigate. I’ve been able to make Split Pea Soup with Bacon and Potato, White Bean and Andouille Sausage with Collards (hello, crockpot), Chicken Picatta, and my daily standard – egg beaters, bacon, english muffin and coffee. Girls’ gotta get her three squares, you know. Despite the ease I’ve relished in being able to be maneuver around the kitchen, I’ve noticed it takes me quite a bit longer to get from stove to table. By the time I’m done making my breakfast, the kids have finished two helpings of Cheerios, read a Big Nate book and practiced their Gangnam style. In the time it takes me to get from the stove to the table (and keep in mind, I’m not going more than five feet, maximum), they’ve gotten into a fight, made up, fought again, made up, and read another Big Nate book. They love some Big Nate.

I’m sure all of this begs the question as to why I don’t ask for help getting my plate to the table. Have you met Mo & Co? High energy and the attention span similar of a fruit fly are not good companions for a plate of food. Let’s just say, I prefer to have my breakfast on the plate, not on the floor.

So, this two ingredient recipe for pumpkin muffins is all things wonderful. Here’s why:

1. Two ingredients
2. Pumpkin
3. Muffins

I mean, what’s not to love? By the time I got out my two ingredients and my muffin pan, my oven was already pre-heated. I did try and short shift the recipe by beating the mix by had instead of using a hand mixer (mine is the Model T of hand mixers). Do not short shift the recipe. Get out the hand mixer, otherwise, you’ll have clumps of cake mix in the pumpkin puree. I know of what I speak!

My muffin tin was greased, lined, and ready for batter. I got fancy and added a dash of cinnamon sugar and a few chopped pecans to the muffin cups before I put them in the oven.

Twenty minutes and one cooling rack later, it was muffin time! The girls fell on those little nuggets of cupcake lined fall goodness like Honey Boo Boo on some sketti (don’t ask me how I know about Honey Boo Boo and sketti!).

Success! I will not be conquered by palate-butchering homemade pumpkin frozen yogurt! There will be pumpkin infused baked goods this fall and every fall! And now, to the recipes to see what’s next!

Happy Friday, y’all!

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Two Ingredient Pumpkin Muffins

(Recipe Found here.)

There’s only two ingredients. That’s right, just the cake mix and the pumpkin (15 oz.). No oil, no eggs, no water, nothing else. The end result is an amazing, incredibly moist muffin/cupcake with a hint of pumpkin flavor.

It felt kind of strange not to add any liquids to the mix but it came together nicely into a thick batter.

Bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes.

IN: recipes ON: October 19, 2012 TAGS: baking, cooking, fall, food, om nom nom, pinterest, recipes BY: Hilary

Being

Daesin

for craig

My head in your lap.

Your hand in my hair.

On my shoulder,

On my hip,

Under the blanket

That covers us both.

A promise.

Permission.

No sound but the soft folds of paper being turned.

I am not asleep, though I pretend to be.

I wish your fingertips skipping

across my curves,

my peaks,

my valleys.

Each touch a souvenir on my skin.

A secret between us that involves

No words.

The page on your book turns.

I sigh and press my cheek against you.

You smell like fall,

of moist earth,

sharp, smoky air

and barely dressed trees.

If I press my ear to your chest

I will hear your heart tap out my name.

Valves open and close.

Your life coursing through you on it’s way to me,

Always reaching.

If you press your fingertip

to that spot,

just there,

Behind my ear, your will feel my blood

Sing to you.

It will rise up and flush crimson,

Eager, but Virtuous,

under your tender touch.

The page on your books turns.

A small exchange between words and body.

My head in your lap.

Your hand in my hair.

I sigh and pull my lower lip in between my teeth.

Tasting,

You.

Tasting ,

Memory.

Smooth edged, bleach bypass images, separate and distinct,

Blurred by the constant fondling

Of remembrance.

A filmstrip of experiences,

shy glances,

stolen moments.

A story of us.

The page on your books turns.

A slight brush of paper against skin.

My head in your lap.

Your hand in my hair.

I sigh and unspoken words pour forth,

Rich jewels, sandy grains, toasted seeds,

Pooling, filling the spaces between us

Where skin and skin

Cannot reach.

You are the song in my heart,

the pace to which I am set.

I am homesick for the eaves of your arms,

the roof of your chin,

the foundation of your body pressed against mine

When you are somewhere other than with me.

My body aches with memory when you depart,

Thrumming, swelling

with each football between us.

Can I lie with you

next to you

All ways and always

Like this.

As the sun marks time.

As stars are born, live, and die,

And our shadows lengthen until they become absorbed

By the darkness that falls around us,

A cloak of possibility,

Of promise.

The page on your books turns.

The hands on your watch usher us past this moment

and onto the next, and the next.

My head in your lap.

Your hand in my hair.

Leaves fall, clouds mottle the periwinkle sky,

Studded with birds winging toward warmer climes.

I sigh and the wind trails its fingers

along the window panes.

The house settles into itself.

I settle further into you.

Your fingers find

That favorite curl of mine,

wind it around your fingers,

Anchoring me to you,

Will you kneel before me,

Expose the sacred places that are uncharted

Allow me

Let me

Discover all

You.

Will you rise above me

Lay your bounty at my feet

Ask of me

Beseech me for

All I have

To give.

The page on your books turns.

The cover falls closed with a hush.

My head in your lap.

Your hand in my hair.

You sigh.

Your breath threads across my face,

Lingers,

before mingling with my own.

You are solid.

You are solace.

I am yours.

IN: ON: October 17, 2012 TAGS: me time, poetry, waxing BY: Hilary

In brief

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I haven’t figured out how to keep my balance with five plus pounds of equipment around my neck and pack of camera gear on my back. I may need to look into a sherpa. Or a certain pair of seven and five year old sisters looking to make a few bucks.

I think my camera is going to break up with me on the grounds of desertion.

IN: ON: October 16, 2012 TAGS: photos, random BY: Hilary

Confession

You’d think that with “Ankle-Gate 2012” going into week 6, I’d be taking advantage of the mandatory time I’ve been spending on the couch.

You’d be wrong.

I mean, I’m sitting around, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t stuff that needs to be done. Even with the changing of the guard, the constant stream of “adult babysitters” that have come to help out, there are some things that I have to do myself. There are papers to sign, there are clothes to put away, there are clothes to switch out for the season. There are the myriad of little things that are easier to take care of on my own, on one foot, than trying to explain where something in particular is. I used to think I had a good vocabulary and decent powers of description, but when forced to tell someone else where I keep my feminine products? Words failed me, big time.

In any event, I’m doing the best I can. The girls have been BEYOND patient. I know that I haven’t been my best self. I’m so frustrated (still), that I have become less than the parent I know I can be. Having to have tendon surgery and the requisite recuperation requirements has made me a terrible parent. I am so angry at what I can’t do. I’m angry about what I’ve had to miss.

You all know how much I love fall; I saw this list and wanted to cry.

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That last bullet point kind of put me over the edge.

I’m. Just. Angry.

And I’ve been expressing it in the worst way. I’m less loving, less patient, less indulgent, less of the parent I want to be. I’m more Joan Crawford than Claire Huxtable. Wire hangers excepted, of course.

And that makes me angry. Round and round we go.

I’ve got to do better. They deserve better. The Hubs deserves better. I know I’m a better person than this. I’m not particularly religious, but I would say that I’m prayerful. I often ask for a better, stronger, more definitive relationship with God. And there are signs all around me, but I’m so busy doing this, that and the other thing, I fail to see them. Is this accident God’s way of literally stopping me in my tracks so that I gain a little perspective on what’s truly important (I know it’s not kettlebells)? Yeah, I’m going to have to say it certainly feels that way.

I’m on Twitter, one of the many ways I’ve ~~squandered~~ spent my bed rest in the early weeks of recovery. I’m still figuring it out, but a feed that I don’t follow popped up in my newsfeed.

Women Of Christ ‏@Women_Of_Christ

7:48 AM – 12 Oct 12 · Details

I think God is bonking me on the head like, “Hey! I’m here. I’ve always been here taking care of you and I always will.

I was reading “Prospect Park West” by Amy Sohn which is a novel set in Brooklyn about the mis-adventures of a group of mothers whose lives intersect in and around the neighborhood. It was a good read and of all of the juicy tidbits surrounding the characters, the take away for me was the story of the two monks. I don’t know if this is a true parable or if Sohn made it up, (her version is slightly different) but either way, I think I need this tattooed down my arm or something.

The Two Monks (found here)

Two monks were making a pilgrimage to venerate the relics of a great Saint. During the course of their journey, they came to a river where they met a beautiful young woman — an apparently worldly creature, dressed in expensive finery and with her hair done up in the latest fashion. She was afraid of the current and afraid of ruining her lovely clothing, so asked the brothers if they might carry her across the river.

The younger and more exacting of the brothers was offended at the very idea and turned away with an attitude of disgust. The older brother didn’t hesitate, and quickly picked the woman up on his shoulders, carried her across the river, and set her down on the other side. She thanked him and went on her way, and the brother waded back through the waters.

The monks resumed their walk, the older one in perfect equanimity and enjoying the beautiful countryside, while the younger one grew more and more brooding and distracted, so much so that he could keep his silence no longer and suddenly burst out, “Brother, we are taught to avoid contact with women, and there you were, not just touching a woman, but carrying her on your shoulders!”

The older monk looked at the younger with a loving, pitiful smile and said, “Brother, I set her down on the other side of the river; you are still carrying her.”

I need to put this load down. I should have put it down six weeks ago. It’s the Serenity Prayer put into action. I have been less than wise here. I’ve cried, I’ve bellyached, I’ve (mentally) stomped around.

Enough.

It’s done.

I’m not saying, I’m over it. I do have to use crutches to get around, after all (hello, constant reminder), but I’m going to be more self-aware. I’m going to try to be more patient. I’m going to hug and kiss more, and sigh out of frustration less.

I’m going to start by apologizing to my girls.

And then I’m going to make them pecan pumpkin muffins. It is fall, after all.

IN: ON: October 15, 2012 TAGS: fall, honesty, sharing BY: Hilary

recipes

Recipe Friday

Another week in the books, another trip to the doctor, another set of instructions on what to do with this busted up ankle. I have to admit, I was feeling pretty good early on. My appointment was on Tuesday morning and I had gotten the girls all squared away so that everyone was where they needed to be when they needed to be there. So confident was I that I was going to get that cast off and just waltz (well maybe crip walk) out of there in just a boot, I went by myself to the office, carrying the boot between two fingers while I crutched my way across the parking deck.

The nurse sawed off the cast and my leg was looking malnourished and very, very hairy. The incision was, as I had been told, bigger than the original laceration, but my doctor said it was healing nicely. It was kind of crusty and extremely itchy, though those are good signs of healing. Te doc said I was looking good and I should wear the boot round the clock, even to sleep. Sure, I can do that. Then, he handed me the crutches and said, “I’ll see you in three weeks, but for now, I want you to use these in addition to the boot.”

Uh. . .what? I thought this was going to be a crutch-free situation.

He goes on to assure me that while the boot is fine to use, I’m not quite ready to put my full weight on my leg. He demonstrated how to get around with the crutches and walking using minimal weight; sure, it looked easy, but there were still crutches involved. I was counting getting my hands back. I’ve got stuff to do! I’ve always got stuff to do. No dice; me and the crutches are in it for the long haul.

I wanted to beat the doc about the head with the crutch, but I refrained. Truth be told, I wanted to burst into tears, I was so angry. I felt very Bruce Banner like. On the inside, I was like this. . .

Somehow, I kept my composure, crutched my way to the car where I had a good old fashioned sob-fest before heading home. You know how you get some bad news and then nothing else goes right for the rest of the day? It was one of those situations; I get home, I get tangled up in the seat belt and my messenger bag. I get out of the car and I drop my keys. I get to the gate and I can’t open it. I crutch around to the side door and almost lose my balance on some acorns. I get up the steps, unlock the side door, but can’t open it because the girls slippers are piled up against the doorjamb. I’m standing there, thinking about all the things that I had planned to do when I tossed the crutches, and yet here I was banging them against the door in a fruitless attempt to dislodge the slippers so I could get in the house. Let’s just say, the bubble burst and the tears caught up with me.

Thankfully, the hubs was home. I’m sure my intermittent thwacking against the door drew piqued his curiosity. He helped me into the house, made me a cup of coffee, and let me snot up his shoulder while I filled him in on how the next three weeks, I was going to have my constant companions. Once the pity party was over, I jumped back into the fray and got busy coordinating and organizing carpools, play dates and babysitters to help me make sure everyone was taken care of. It really does take a village and I have such an exception support system in my friends, family and neighbors.

I know that one bum ankle doesn’t mean the world is crashing down, but it’s hard for me be so limited. As I’ve mentioned before, there’s quite a bit of pride involved that needs to be overcome. Case in point, I was going upstairs the other evening, trying to give my butt a break and use the step-crutch-step method. It’s very precarious and you really have to think in order do it right without toppling over and hurting anything else. I made it to the very last step and my brain just shut off. I mean, I didn’t know how to navigate the last step. So I found myself having an out of body experience as I watched my booted left foot raise up to plant itself (and my weight) on the tread. My brain clicked on like, “Uh, no, that’s not right!!!” but I couldn’t get my leg to stop. So, in an effort to prevent myself from landing fully on my bad leg, I just let go of the crutches and face planted onto the landing. The crutches went flying as I absorbed the impact with my hands and arms. And the hubs came flying out the girls’ room where he had been tucking them in. I just raised my hand to stop him and said, “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m just re-grouping.” Needless to say, I’m not allowed to go up the stairs like that any more.

In any event, I’m making the best of my situation. I’m still fully engrossed with Twitter, Tumblr and Pinterest. My fondness for pumpkin has finally surfaced, so I’ve been having pumpkin coffee in the afternoons as I thumb through pumpkin recipes that I hope to get to before the season is over. My dad took Vivi and me grocery shopping yesterday and I was able to throw a few supplies in the cart to make this 4-ingredient pumpkin frozen yogurt.

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It was easy to do, didn’t take very long, but in ended up being quite an epic fail.

On Pinterest, it said “1 C. Greek Yogurt, 1 C. Pumpkin Puree, 1 tbs. Honey, 1 tsp. Cinnamon”, which is what I did. I don’t have an ice cream maker, but you can still make it by stirring the mixture every 30 minutes. I did that, too. Yeah, it tasted like I has scraped the guts out of a pumpkin and waved some honey over it. Nasty. Seriously. . .it was gross.

The website, from where the recipe came, says the following (and I would suggest trying that).

Happy Friday, y’all!

Homemade Pumpkin Frozen Yogurt

recipe found here.

1 cup nonfat vanilla yogurt, strained

1 cup pumpkin puree

1 tablespoons granulated sugar

1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice

Mix everything together in a large mixing bowl until completely combined. Churn the mixture in an ice cream maker for a few minutes until it is a smooth, cool consistency. Alternatively, place the bowl in the freezer and stir mixture every half hour until it reaches desired consistency.

IN: recipes ON: October 12, 2012 TAGS: baking, cooking, fall, food, life, om nom nom, pinterest, recipes, venting BY: Hilary

recipes

Recipe Friday

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Okay, I’m over it. I mean, I’m really, really over it. This week has had more ups and downs than Kirstie Alley’s weight. I’ve had to deal with some life challenges that have forced me to step back and own up to my role in life — I’m an adult. For so long I’ve felt like I’ve been playing at it. I’ve been delighted when I’ve been mistaken for a teenager, when people who card me look at the date in disbelief. The truth is, I haven’t seen my teens in about 15 years.

Anyway, this week saw the changing of the guard yet again. My mom headed back to her house Tuesday, but my mother-in-law came wasn’t able to come in until Wednesday afternoon. I called in some more favors and had a neighbor stay with Vivi while I ran carpool in the am. I totally spaced that Mo had early release that day and finagled a playdate for her that involved the alignment of the planets, consulting Poor Richard’s Almanac, and sacrificing two chickens to get all of that straight. Co had a full day, and between stints with the sitter, I was home alone on baby duty. If everything is in arm’s reach, I’m good to go on feeding and changing. But I forgot to have the sitter take Vivi out of the swing before she left. I had diapers, wipes, bottles, and no baby. I won’t get into how I MacGuyver-ed the bouncy seat to the swing, put her in it and got it all back to the command center that is the overstuffed chair and ottoman. Suffice it to say, we made it without incident, though I’m not anxious to repeat it.

Because I’m so hard-headed, it absolutely kills me to have to ask for help when I want to do things for myself. Yes, I know that I’m down to one leg and that both of my hands are constantly full of crutch handles, but I. CAN.DO. IT. MYSELF.

I really can’t, though. I’m trying, but I need help. And you have no idea how hard it is for me to cough up that nugget of truth. Really, the hardest part of going up the stairs on one knee and down the stairs on my butt is that big lump of pride I have to traverse. That coupled with the fact that I’m exhausted by the effort (but would die if anyone knew it) is beyond frustrating.

I have a sorority sister who is dealing with her own recuperation from a slip and fall. She says she’s got her angry days and I told her, she took the words right out of my mouth. At first there were a few pity parties, but the anger gave way. One day, the hubs found me lying on the floor of the closet surrounded by a pile of pants that I couldn’t get over my cast.

“Did you fall? Are you okay?” he asked, panic tingeing his voice.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I’m alright. I’m just getting dressed.”
When I finally did peel myself off the floor, I had on pants that fit over the cast and over the tummy. Six weeks with no exercise except bicep curls of the hand-to-mouth variety can have disastrous results. The pants were on and they fit? Double win.

I feel like Harvey Two-Face about the whole thing. I’m vacillating between being so.freaking.mad. and so extraordinarily grateful. I mean, how would you feel seeing all of your laundry clean and folded, but then realizing your mother-in-law folded your thong underwear? Yeah. Think on that.

I know that I have SO much for which to be grateful:

1. family and friends who have rallied around to help me.

2. good medical care.

3. the fact that my foot is still attached.

4. the cast is coming off in 2 weeks, not 6.

5. the muscles in my upper body, left leg and butt are going to be so well toned

But then, when someone asks me how I’m doing, I feel more like this. . .

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SN: about the cast. When my brother was in high school, he broke his leg playing basketball. Something going up for a rebound, tripping over a shoelace, yadda, yadda, yadda. . .broken leg. I was about 9 or 10 at the time and I thought the whole cast/crutches thing was the coolest thing ever. His friends had decorated his cast and wrote all kinds of messages. He got out of doing chores. In my pre-teen opinion, he’d hit the motherlode. Now, having had the experience myself, let me tell you, this shiggity ain’t fun at all. There’s a big difference between having a broken leg in high school, when you live at home with your parents and your biggest responsibility is doing your homework and walking the dog and having a broken leg as a grown woman with a family and a household to run. When it all went down, when I tripped over the bag and saw the blood. I was like, “Ugh, I don’t have time for this! “. In my head, I was all. . .

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Don’t get me wrong. There have been lots of positives. I’ve gotten to have quality time with Vivi, with my mom and with my mother–in-law. I’ve been able to catch up on my writing here on the blog, and on my yet-to-be-made-public microblog. I’m tumblr addicted and I admit it.

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I started tweeting. I’ve been insta.gramming. I made several playlists on Spotify. I’ve read books. I’ve organized the girls winter clothes. I cleaned out my bathroom cabinets. I’ve caught up on my correspondence, writing birthday cards, thinking of you cards, condolence cards, and thank you cards. One day, there were flowers delivered. A few days later, this was on my doorstep (cue the Hallelujah chorus!).

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Thank you, thank you, cool KC! Those cupcakes were (yes, they’re gone) right on time and delicious. As to your note about being torn between the cupcakes and chocolate covered bacon? Really, there’s no wrong answer there. Maybe I need to mashup the two and do french toast maple bacon cupcakes with chocolate shavings. . .mmmm. . .bacon cupcakes. Must.start.looking.

While I won’t delay this post any longer as I search for the holy grail of baked goods, I will leave you with a fall themed goodie that I really want to make once I can maneuver around the kitchen on both feet. You know how I feel about pumpkin; I hope I get to indulge the season has passed. And of course, if anyone is feeling ambitious enough to make these and then drop them off at my house for a sampling, I’m more than happy to oblige! I promise to put my huge stick away.

Happy Friday, y’all!

Update! Found it! Click here.

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Mini Pumpkin Cheesecakes
Courtesy of Life {Made} SimpleIngredients
1 package (8 oz) Original Philadelphia Cream Cheese, room temperature
½ c. pumpkin puree
¼ c. + 2 tbsp. sugar
1 egg
2 tsp. milk
¼ tsp. vanilla
¼ tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. pumpkin pie spice (or allspice)
¹⁄₈ tsp. nutmeg

For the crust:
8 gingersnap cookies
1 graham cracker
1½ tbsp. melted butter
1½ tsp. brown sugar
¼ c. pecans
pinch of salt

For the vanilla bean whipped cream:
1 c. heavy cream
1 tbsp. granulated sugar
Seeds from ¼ a vanilla bean

Pumpkin pie spice for garnish

DIRECTIONS:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease a mini cheesecake pan with baking spray. Set aside.
2. In the bowl of a food processor, grind all ingredients for crust, except for the melted butter. The mixture should resemble slightly coarse crumbs. Remove mixture and pour melted butter over. Mix until crumbs are wet. Press into the bottom of each hole. Place in oven and bake for 10 minutes.
3. While crust is baking prepare filling beating together cream cheese, sugar and pumpkin puree until smooth. Add spices, vanilla, heavy cream and egg. Mix until just combined.
4. Pour filling over each crust, dividing evenly. Place in oven and bake for 20 minutes. Remove from oven and cool in pan for 20 minutes before removing cheesecakes (yes your cheesecakes will sink a little, this is normal).
5. Remove cheesecakes from pan using the bottom of a wooden spoon. Using a butter knife, remove metal bottoms and place cheesecakes in an airtight container. Refrigerate for 2 hours before serving.
6. While cheesecakes are cooling, prepare vanilla bean whipped cream by fitting a chilled mixing bowl into your stand mixer. Add heavy cream, sugar and scraped vanilla bean seeds. Using the whisk attachment beat on high for 2-3 minutes until stiff peaks begin to form. Return to refrigerator until cheesecakes are ready to be served.

7. To assemble, using a mesh sieve, lightly dust cheesecakes with pumpkin pie spice before or after topping with a swirl of whipped cream. Enjoy!

IN: recipes ON: October 5, 2012 TAGS: baking, cooking, fall, food, om nom nom, pinterest, recipes, venting BY: Hilary

Taking Care

The various stages of my hair journey.

I’ve been talking about my hair quite a bit lately. Again.

When I first went natural in college, it was for the most bizarre of reasons. I had an event to go to with my then boyfriend (now hubby) and I needed to get my hair done. I needed a relaxer, badly. I checked my funds and they were next to nothing. My paycheck from my on campus job wasn’t due for another week. I hadn’t budgeted properly, but I knew I couldn’t go to a formal event looking like Benny in search of a home. So, when I got to the salon, I already knew what I was going to do.

The stylist whipped the cape out around and in front of me. Snapping it up, she said, “What are doing today?”

“Cutting it off,” I said, no hesitation.

“What?” came the response. So I repeated it. And thus began the back and forth between me and her about my certainty to take this drastic step. Mind you, I wasn’t looking like Rapunzel about the head, but I did have shoulder length hair. I don’t think she had a clientele that came in requesting a big chop that often. Keep in mind, this was 1999. She began to cut, but after few inches, she would check in with me to make sure I was still okay with what she was doing. I was. Cut, snip, cut, snip. And then, it was over. I had about an two inches of hair all the way around. And I loved it.

The reactions I got were mixed. I honestly can’t even remember what they were aside from complete surprise from Craig and my friends. I hadn’t told anyone I was doing it. I went with the sister of one of my good friends and she was totally blown as she watched the whole thing unfold. But, I loved it. I felt free. Wash and go! No more curling irons! No more worrying about my ‘do when the forecast called for rain! It was liberating and awesome. All because, I didn’t have enough money for a relaxer and had no clue I could have gotten a box kit from CVS for the same price it cost me to have all of my hair chopped off. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

When I think about that time, especially regarding my hair care routine, I really was ignorant. I just washed, conditioned and rolled. I used some gel to get some curl definition, but I had no where near the products I have now. It wasn’t as if no one had ever been natural before. It was just that, it wasn’t as popular as it is now. I didn’t have the resources like message boards, magazines, a variety of products or someone else to model after the way I do now. I just let my hair grow; I didn’t get regular trims or anything. Truthfully, I was pretty hard on my hair by the sheer fact that I didn’t do anything to it.

Like I said, I let it grow and grow, until I had the ‘fro for which I’m now known. But then I got engaged, and since my parents were kindly footing the bill, they got to have a say on a few things — like my hair. I was 21, not quite the self-possessed woman I am now, so I just rolled with it. It took two relaxers to go from ‘fro to straight. Then I had the stylist cut it into a cute little pixie. When I was done, I went to get in the car and my dad wouldn’t open the door; he didn’t recognize me.

By this time, it’s 2001. I kept the relaxer for a while as I let my hair grow again. It was easy to fall back into the relaxed hair routine. Natural hair was not receiving the love or attention (at least not where I was living), so I did what I knew how to do — got a relaxer. Over time, I grew tired of maintenance, and decided to go back to the natural. So, I put in some braids and started to grow my hair back out. My hair care ritual was much like it was in the past, a very hands off approach. I prided myself in the fact I wasn’t spending my Saturdays in the salon with everyone and their mother. I loved how I could pick out my hair and have my brother trim it up with his clippers. Thus began the advent of my grandmother asking me, “When are you going to fix your hair!”. Good times.

Fast forward to 2010. I’d grown tired of my ‘fro. It had a life of it’s own. It preceded me into a room. It had it’s own clique of friends. It announced me, even when I wasn’t trying to be seen. I kept telling Craig that I was going to get a relaxer and he advised against it offering up braids and presses as an alternative. One day, I just had had enough. So I carried myself on over to the Hair Cuttery and said, “Let’s do this!” The pixie had returned.

I loved that hair cut, but the maintenance was more than I wanted. With short hair, you’ve got to keep it looking tight and that’s work. I had to schedule appointments around the girls school schedule. I had to wrap it up and was afraid to work out, lest I sweat out the chemicals. I kept a mini flat iron in my purse so that I could lay down the back as needed. There’s a reason they call the relaxer “creamy crack” — you just can’t get off that janx!

My breaking point came towards the end of that summer. I’d had it. It had been hotter than all get out. I was constantly worried that my hair would “snap back”, that my nape (or kitchen for those of you in the know) would start to resemble a sheeps’ backside. I went to the hairdresser for another touch-up and trim, and for as much as I enjoyed the community feel of the salon, I got fed up with being bumped from the chair when other patrons came in. So, I decided that last touch up was going to be the last touch up. When it came time for me to go back, when the kitchen started looking like “baaa, baaa, baaa,” I called my hairdresser and asked her to squeeze me in to cut the relaxer out. She said come on over and guess who she bumped so I could get the scissor treatment? My own mother! SN: she has since gone natural herself and looks fantastic!

Despite the stink eye from my mom, it was the best salon experience I’d had in a while. In about 5 minutes, I was back to my old self, and it felt great. I told myself that this time, I was going to be more conscious about how I treated my hair. Natural hair was en vogue and resources abounded. I tried some tried and true products like Miss Jessie’s and Elasta QP, and I tried new products like Mixed Chixx and Ouidad. I joined message boards. I read product reviews and all articles talking about natural hair care tips and tricks. I put little to no heat on my hair. I got a satin pillow case and a new satin night cap. I’ve talked with other curly girlies about products and practices, about curl types and curl friendly combs. I found a hairdresser who wears her hair naturally, so she has experience with hair like mine. I talk, she listens. She advises, I comply. I go for regular trims. I’ve learned that no matter how many times you follow the same steps, the humidity, barometric pressure, alignment of the planets and the amount of iron in your blood will make your hair look differently every.single.time. There’s no such thing as duplicating the same look, but that’s what makes it all unique and totally individual.

I make sure the girls see what I was doing because this is how they will learn to take care of their own hair. Even though they see the brush and take off running in the other direction, I’m not going to relax their hair. If, when they are grown women, they want to do that, it’s their choice. As for now, I think this graphic sums it up nicely.

(image)

I’m leading by example (I have a natural hair themed Pinterest board). I love the path I’ve taken.

IN: ON: October 1, 2012 TAGS: hair BY: Hilary

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