Debating Locks

Once upon a time I had dreadlocks. The story of my locks went something like this: On a motorcycle trip across the Western states I stopped in the middle of the rockies to see a lover. He happened to be shaving a mohawk into his girlfriend's son's head, and I had just had a disappointing experience based on traditional concepts of beauty at a photo shoot, so I asked him to do mine as well. I spent that summer with a mohawk that changed colors, but hovered between blue and pink most of the time. At the end of the summer I went to Burning Man and ended up bringing a new friend home with me. One night, in our basement apartment on haight street, I asked her to dread my hair. We bought a jar of bedhead wax (Which I STILL have quite a bit of), a metal comb, and a package of small rubber bands. She spent hours backcombing my hair into poofy pink dreads, and at the end I looked like a very disappointed side-show-bob. I then spent the next week freaking out about how hideous my dreads were, and applying wax liberally. Eventually the dreads started to calm down, and to even lock up a bit. I went surfing and snorkeling in the pacific ocean and the salt did wonders for the locks. Then, one day at summer camp my campers got bored and decided that they were going to decorate my hair. They put all sorts of ribbons and string in the dreads, lengthening them down my back. I absolutely loved the look that they created and I started regularly adding bits of different colored yarn to my hair:
For several years I kept the mohawk with dreads going. Sometimes I added yarn. Sometimes I dyed the dreads strange colors. It was quite easy and satisfying to bleach out a dread and add blue, or green, and for the first time in my life I felt like I had control over how my hair looked, and I thought that it looked rather good.

Regarding the question of spirituality and dreads or fashion and dreads I really could not have cared less. Of course dreads only became an option because of the community that I was part of. Within the burning man community dreads were not just an acceptable style, they were often times desirable. I was more or less oblivious though, and so my dreads were more for me than for anyone else. I was also minimally aware of the spirituality connected with dreadlocks:

Now, I was not a rasta, and I am not even sure what a rasta is. I did not smoke marijuana, and I did not feel like my dreadlocks somehow connected me to the earth in some powerful, mystical way. I also did not feel like "god," wanted me to wear dreadlocks, and I did not care about spiritual leaders wearing locks any more than I cared about the fashion of it.

Eventually I left the bay area, where shaved heads were somewhat sexy, and moved to Arizona where I lacked a roommate to help me shave, and I started applying for more grown up jobs. I started to grow out the hair beneath my dreads to have less of a drastic appearance. When I got my acceptance into peace corps it was stated, rather murkily, that I should attempt to have a more conservative style. Since the tattoos were not going anywhere I decided to compromise by combing out my remaining dreads. Five years later they had still not locked completely, and they combed out. Not easily, but I was able to save most of my hair and did not loose any length.

I loved my dreads, but I did not think that I would do them again. They are a lot of work, and a lot of commitment. However, recently the desire to dread up has been returning and I thought that I should at least look into it. Now the idea of natural dreading (or locks by neglect) is a lot more appealing to me than it was back then. When I first wanted dreadlocks it was an immediate decision and I wanted immediate gratification. After reading some material on the internet today ( http://www.naturaldreads.com/ ) I am much more drawn to the spiritual discipline required to grow natural dreads. I am figuring that with my history and the current length of my hair it will take over three years for me to achieve actual dreads. It is a huge commitment, but undertaking it as a spiritual path rather than just a fashion journey, makes that time commitment much more appealing.

Here are some of the ideas that I gleaned, and hope to consider with the growth of my new dreads:

1. Growing natural locks is a practice of non-violence. I know, it might sound ridiculous that we can even be violent to our hair, but I think it makes sense. I am very violent to myself in the name of beauty: I dye my hair, cut my hair, force my breasts into uncomfortable bras, wear jeans that are a tad too tight, wear high heels, pierce myself and tattoo myself. All of these are ways that I express my will or my desire and attempt to assert control. Some of these habits are violences that I am aware of, like the tats and piercing, and some of them are so culturally ingrained that I do not even recognize them as forms of violence (Bleaching hair). By allowing my hair to grow the way it wants to, at the pace it wants to, and not cutting it or combing it, I am practicing an extreme reminder to remain aware of these violences in the name of beauty. It reminds me to be kind to myself, and to others, and to put love into the world instead of adding to the heap of power struggle and violence. 
2. Growing locks is a practice in patience and commitment. I tend to get enthusiastic about an idea, and then to loose interest suddenly. This can most often be seen in my hair, because as soon as I get the itch for a change it is usually my cut or color that changes, and then eventually other areas of my life. Yes, I can suddenly back out of the dreads, and I am leaving that option open, but I know that once they get going it will take a long time to get back to that point, and so I feel like it will raise my awareness in the area of patience and commitment. 
3. I am looking for a new spirituality that is more connected to the earth, and to my body. Some form of shamanism. Because hair holds a person's history, including the ingestion of substances and being around toxins, I feel like dreads are a great reminder of that earthly connection, and a motivation to remain more pure. 

So... will I do it? Not sure still. But, in case I do, here is me on dreads #2, the nonviolent way, day 1: 

The end of the world

They say that the world will end tonight. No one believes it. We have gotten over prophecies, at least on the cosmic scale. We might throw our tarot cards or cast a few bones on occasion, but it is just for fun. Deep down we want to believe it and yet we don't. I say we too casually. Me. I. I do not believe that the world will end tonight. But then, I am not saying that it will. My friends say that it will. Friends. Strangers. People that I casually know and have shared a secret, indefinable breath of intimacy with on occasion. We danced around a fire. We cried. We told the myth of community. Now that community says the world will end, but I think they don't believe it. It is fun to say, to speculate, to imagine the world will end.  It is just a prophecy.
But, what if it wasn't? What if the world really was ending tonight? The possibility gives us a chance to be just a little bit reckless, to act without consequence. I think that is a good release on occasion. We spend too much time living for the future, and yet not enough. The signals are too mixed, all I know is that I should feel guilty about something, one way or another. "You're doing it wrong," has become the slogan of my friends. Well, maybe I am, and maybe I'm not. Maybe every person is doing it just as right as they can, and who are we to judge from our dusty domes in the desert? I have been away too long.
They say that the world will end tonight. I feel like I am on the edge of the world, way over here in Istanbul. It's an exotic place, almost unearthly. It is so big that I can't even thread out a beginning of understanding. The physical place, the people, the food, the air, the history, the tradition, the folklore, the tales of travellers? Where am I supposed to begin? Nowhere. There isn't a beginning when you are perched on the edge of the world, but it is a great place to watch for endings. The end. Shhh. It is creeping up in a cold black sky, grey clouds, and a twinkling blanket of snow. Did you know that it snows in Istanbul? I didn't. I honestly expected nothing more than desert dustings. Where did this blanket come from? It must have dropped from a parting heaven, god saying goodbye, wrapping us up before lowering us into our grave. Everything twinkles so. Silver. Quiet. Muted.
In the darkness, already fallen at half past six, I hear children calling to each other. I don't understand the language. It is okay, it isn't necessary to understand the language of children. Their voices echo. I don't remember hearing them on other nights. It must be the snow, drawing them out to play. To really play- not quiet games like hopscotch and football, but loud, vicious games of cold and hot. Oh, the snow. I sit inside, tucked away and warm. I haven't ventured out into it, and by the time that I do it will have lost its purity. Dim, grey, filled with the mud of the world. Mud and fumes from cars turned into cold crystals. But here I am, for now, alone, surrounded by a muted white wonderland and dreaming of my future. Who knows, maybe the world will end today. I just can't give it any reason to, because tomorrow will be sunnier, and sunnier, and summer will come, and years, and adventures. It's time for me to leave the edge of the world, and get back into life. 

Fear of the unknown

The most attractive thing to me is the unknown. There is something about making eye-contact with a complete stranger that thrills me. In mere seconds an entire lifetime of possibility passes between you, and the buzz that is shared in that moment is electrifying. It is intoxicating. I am not talking about attraction. Well, yes I am, but not of the traditional sort. I am not writing only about lust and love. I am writing about recognition and the desire for understanding. I am trying to capture the moment that holds not only romance but the possibility of a deep friendship or a challenging enemy. Sometimes, hell, to be honest, most of the time, the best seconds of knowing someone come in the moments before knowing them. You can go ahead and think that I am callous, preferring the objectified disembodiment of fantasy to the rich depths of real relationships, but you know it isn't true. You know that I love intimacy and friendship. I love the joy of discovering truths that I could not imagine about people. But think about it. There is one perfect moment when you see someone and they are everything that you want them to be. They are funny, and their voice (although you've never heard it) is the sweetest sound that you can imagine. They are warm, and comforting. They are exciting and dangerous. They hold the knowledge of the world. They will be there when you cry, and their hijinks will always make you smile. They remind you of your best friend when you were five. Your parents would hate them, your current friends would not understand them, but you would love them. Across the room they are all of this and more. They are undefined possibility, and as long as they stay far enough away from you they can continue to play the hero in your fantasies. You wait for them to drop into your life, and sometimes they do. They give a word or a smile, and maybe it is not everything that you imagined but we are resourceful beings that quickly recreate our lies and so it is enough to fuel their perfection. You delicately ride this golden wave of mystery, hoping to just barely graze their surface, knowing any misstep will plunge you deep into their being.

It is there, beneath the waters of the flesh, that the imperfections lie. They become a friend or enemy and they are never what you never were aware that you expected from them. They are always different. Sometimes they are better, sometimes not as good, and even though it is not quite a disappointment it is still a bit of a let down, a deflation of excitement. You can grasp them, touch their existence. They become real, with all of their imperfections and surprises. For better or worse, the mystery is gone and they become a person.

Now the truth is that I am not writing about anyone that I have lost. The plunge into reality has usually been quite sweet, and I realize that there will be infinite fantasies out in the great wide open. What I am afraid of is loosing my own mystery. I know how enticing the unknown is, and I know that the known cannot compare to the unknown. It isn't better, it isn't worse, it is on a different plane altogether. I know this and yet the possibilities that I will never have after hello has been said cut me to the core. Even while writing this I know that it is not a big deal. I can whimper and whine over the perfection that I am not, but I will always desire the arms of a lover, the knowing smile of a friend, the pointed comment from a rival, and the stinging love of family rather than the cool, distant excitement of mystery.