Caren Gussoff writer. geek. bon vivant. dot com

It’s been a long, long, long time since I’ve blogged. Been heavily preoccupied with a full-time contract, some major family health issues, and other sundry odds and ends. But here I am. Hi.
 
Recently, I was approached by a writer friend—and then asked similar questions by another writer friend—about my dreadlocks. They both have characters who have dreads (it seems a natural choice for near-future SF/apocalyptic fiction to have characters with dreadlocks), and were interested in some of the mechanics behind them. So, here is my writers-and-other-interested-parties-guide-to-dreadlocks. At least, my dreadlocks.

Dreadlocks are, essentially, felted hair. Any animal-based fiber can felt. My dreads been described as feeling like everything from “a mohair sweater” to “a baby goat.” They feel somewhere inbetween those two, IMHO.

 I decided to get these, my second set of dreads, because my hair is naturally dry and knotty anyway, and it always wants to tangle up all on its own. I get sick of fighting it. They are not a religious choice for me, not any sort of a cultural statement. I like the way they look on me and my hair wants to do this anyway. 

My husband and I made mine by dividing my clean, dry hair (after I washed it thoroughly to remove any buildup or natural oils) into sections, then backcombing it to break up the surface cuticle. This made fuzzy tubes that we held together, temporarily, with food-grade beeswax (the only time I used any wax) while the rough hairs attracted and tangled up with one another. This was the hardest and grossest part, because the wax is kind of sticky and the baby dreads are pretty delicate, so I spent a week or two with sticky, waxy dreadlets that I couldn’t get wet. After this week, I soaked my hair in a vinegar and lemon juice solution to dissolve the wax, and then started washing as normal, using castile soap.  No conditioner.
 
You cannot make dreads by:

• not washing your hair. Hair gets loaded with its natural oils and sebum, which act as natural conditioners. Aside from the fact that this is a little gross, the hair itself becomes too slippery to knot
• putting toothpaste, honey, glue, gel or some other goo in your hair and hoping for the best. You’ll attract dirt, ants, and misery–but not dreads
• neglecting your hair in general (not combing, etc). Your hair may dread, but it will dread in big, uneven clumps–or worse, one giant beaver tail looking thing
• twisting your hair. It won’t stay like that

 Over the next few months. I encouraged the fuzzy tubes we made to knot up by using a crochet hook to pull the dread in and around itself, then palm-rubbing and smoothing them down and in shape with aloe vera gel. Pretty soon, though, between natural friction and regular washings, the hair began to mat—felt—all on its own.

They really don’t require much special attention after that. I wash my dreads—in fact, more often than when I had regular long hair—2 to 3 times a week using castile soap. I blow them dry when I don’t feel like having a wet head for 4 hours. I use aloe when they get frizzy. That’s pretty much it.
 
There are places thats sell special products for dread: wax, shampoo, and stuff. It’s not necessary. Dread wax, as I said, is sticky and you shouldn’t really need it after the first week. Dread shampoo is just basically castile soap–same thing as Tom’s of Maine or Dr. Bronners, which you can get at a drug store. The other sprays and stuff–they are usually perfumed aloe, occasionally with mint, rosemary or tea tree oils to help fight dandruff (a problem for some if you aren’t good about cleaning your scalp). Buying special dread products is really the difference between buying hair products at Walgreens verses a salon. 

Dreads grow, just like normal hair. You lose a lot of length, though, as the hair gets “sucked up” into the dread. Case in point–my dreads are chin length, but if my hair was undreaded, it’d probably be halfway down my back.
 
When I get an inch or two of growth at the roots—enough to stick my index finger through—I pull the end of the dread up and crochet it through to take up some slack and to encourage the new hair to tangle too.

Dreads get fatter as time goes on, as well. This is because hair that would otherwise get shed instead remains in the dread. This grosses some people out, but really, if you think about it—hair is hair. The hair that is attached to the follicle still is no more alive than shed hair. As long as you keep it clean, that is.
 
Sometimes, dreads like to stick to one another, like velcro. Unless you want them to dread together into a bigger dread, you need to rip them apart. Sometimes, this hurts, if the hairs have gotten very grabby. 

There’s really no way to hide bugs or anything inside a dread. I’ve heard those urban myths about people who cut open a dreadlock to find it’s a hair cylinder stuffed with bugs. My dreads are solid hair all the way through to the core. If you grab one, they feel firm. There’s no “inside” in which ickies can lurk.
 
Dreads are permanent. There are places that carry products which claim to remove dreads, but these are just very strong, oily conditioners that will help loosen the knots. Dreads, more than likely, need to be cut out to be removed. The first time I cut mine off, I had about an inch of “usable” hair.
 
Things peoples assume because I have dreadlocks:

• I know where to buy weed (I don’t)
• I smoke a lot of weed (I don’t)
• I like reggae (I like ska better, but sure. OK)
• I smell (I might. Probably not, though. I shower twice a day.)
• I attend Burning Man (Never been. Roughing it in a crowd is not my style)
• I’m a “hippie” (Varying definitions. Whatever)
• I like camping (in HOTELS)

And that’s that. Everything I know (or can think of) about dreads. Feel free to ask me questions, if you have any unanswered, burning need-to-knows.

And jeebus crow, pinky swear on the fact that I will start updating this on a semi-regular basis (July! My last post was in July!).

This seems like it should be the time I’d be pushing out frequent updates to the three or four of you dedicated readers. Instead, I have temporarily deserted you and experienced the last whirlwind month without you in my front pocket. What a terrible, negligent virtual pal I have been. I have been ensconced in velvet for the past few weeks and I have shared nary a corner.

Clarion West season is very consuming. There are now parties, weekly readings and all other variations of social engagements in which I get to see friends and make new ones—as well as honk incomprehensible love-words towards writers of whom I am a sick-ass fan. Maureen McHugh, my long-distance crush, materialized into this lovely woman with a gentle, no-bullshit personality and a wicked sense of humor. I did not curl up in her lap, although I wanted to, and remain convinced that she could have totally taken it without freaking out over my needy adoration. Plus, I was lucky enough to sit in on one of her CW classes and get proof-pudding that she the genius that I have lovingly expected her to be.

I was also present during the reception in honor of Octavia E. Butler’s induction into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame, and was blessed into meeting some of her relatives, her whip smart/red headed agent, and other friends and readergellencia.

The beginning of this week found me back to heaven-on-earth (AKA Hedgebrook) to a party in honor of the writers who were honored with this year’s Elizabeth George Foundation Awards. I was one of these honorees, and I was bursting with pride and nervousness and self-doubt. But, between the nourishment of Hedgebrook, Elizabeth George’s quiet, classy, feisty generosity, a rousing round of croquet, the spying of bald eagle fledglings, and some very, very, very wonderful conversation over red wine with Gloria Steinem, I felt wrapped in angel wings of printed paper.

To top this sundae of holy-shitness, I’m taking on as web manager for the SFWA website, creating and implementing a content plan that allows fresh, interesting, relevant, and useful articles, interviews, and reviews go up on the site nearly every day. I’ve spent the past few weeks ramping up. I have pulled back a corner as a place from which to jump, so watch for me pulling my parachute—possibly in your direction—starting this week.

Oh, yeah. I’m also trying to whip some novel pages into order so they can be sent out as partials.

Sometimes, I sleep.

Of all the writers in the world that I would have liked to have known, Octavia E. Butler tops my list for a hundred different reasons.  I will be in attendance at the Carl Brandon party celebrating her deserved induction into the Hall of Fame. I hope you’ll join me and spread the word.

I’m officially FUCT (like it? I just thought of it)–a freelance, urban, cat-owning thirty-something.*

That prejudice is alive and well in America.

I’m a big girl. I am. I know I am. No one actually knows it more than I do. But there are reasons for my size, some of which I can’t help (thx, genetics!). I’ve been thinner, never thin—and to maintain chunky-thin nearly killed me. Twice. The first time, I was a barfer. I wouldn’t say I had true bulimia, because I didn’t binge-eat and my disordered eating was forced—but I would throw up, faithfully, every time I ate anything that had more than 200 calories in it. The second time I was thin was because I simply, for all intents and purposes, stopped eating entirely. A whole days’ worth of food during those times was a plain, whole wheat bagel + one glass of orange juice + 25 to 40 baby carrots. That’s it. Not per meal. Per day.

In both those cases, I managed to whittle myself down to 160 pounds.  Not the 90 pounds or 110 pounds one would expect, but 160 pounds, which is still, according to BMI charts, considered overweight for my frame. Now I sure LOOKED thin, drawn even, and a bit scary. I got cavities and I collapsed on more than one occasion.

So. I got better. Which means, for me, weighing considerably more than 160 pounds. I’m big. I don’t need a seatbelt extender. I don’t take up more than one seat on anything, except, maybe a kiddie ride. But, I am a woman of size.

Now, I would never argue that I am at my optimal health right now. There’s a few things I slack on and a few things I could and should do differently. But, overall, I walk everywhere (we don’t have a car right now), I eat lots of vegetables and fruits and whole grains. My blood pressure is awesome. I have low cholesterol. Aside from the shit that is wrong with me—which, incidentally, has nothing to do with weight—I’m a healthy bitch.

But today, today I was informed that I was un-hirable because I was “too unhealthy to look at” and that my “energy level was one of someone half dead.” I was denied a job, essentially, not because of my qualifications (I was, in fact, very qualified) or my personality wasn’t a good fit—no, because I am too fat and therefore, unhealthy. The low energy thing—the only thing I can figure is that it stems from her prejudice about my size. I’m pretty bouncy when I want to be–however, at a job interview at 3pm, that seemed to call for mellow. Apparently, too mellow. So mellow my chins melted into my chest.

This job did not—be aware—have any physical requirements…I mean, it wasn’t for the fire department or the military or something else where having some boom-boom would be an issue. No. This job was to be someone’s personal assistant—a woman who makes her living as a life coach.

Yeah, I’m serious. I may be a fiction writer, but I can’t make this shit up.

I felt bad. I felt really, really bad. Now, I’m angry. I’m mostly angry at myself for allowing this woman to make me feel bad, for allowing me to waste my time (she let me go through the whole hour long in-person interview before bringing this up), and angry that there was nothing I could do or say to change the fact that I was, indeed, just denied a job (albeit one that now I OBVIOUSLY WOULD NEVER, EVER WANT) for that reason*.  What I was most angry about, though, was my own shock at the whole thing.  I mean, the Southwest Airlines/Kevin Smith debacle and the other ten bazillion similar humiliatingly horrible things, as well as colonialism, racism, slavery and other countless injustices** that happen and have happened to people should have kept forefront in my mind that we possess the ability to be astoundingly cruel to one another, and most especially when we are feeling the most vulnerable.

Should she have lied to me? Hell no. But she could have exercised taste and restraint, thanked me very much for my time, and then jotted down in her NO HIRE book “Fatty fat pants!” and never called me back. That’s not a lie. It’s polite. It’s conscientious. It costs nothing and life is hard enough already. And this is, let me reiterate, a woman who wants to coach people. To be their best (cue laugh track/sad trombone).

Why am I telling you this? A few reasons. One, I have to own this. If I don’t, it’s going to eat me up inside and I have a book I’m trying to finish.  I already cried about it like a 14 year old home from a bad day in middle school. Two, to remind all the other FATTY FAT PANTS –as well as my gay, transgender friends and friends of color—that this shit is not over. It still happens. And when it happens to you, you are not alone (what happened to me today pales in comparison, isn’t even the same stadium playing the same sport, to what many of you go through, and for that I am grateful). Three, to consciously remind myself of this lesson, how delicate anyone can be–to be kind to people, to give them a chance when I could otherwise be dismissive, when I may be unthinkingly heartless and cold in my responses, to stop and remember that we are all trying to live a good life.

Here’s to the good life, friends.

*I do not need to work for a crazy, demented boss again. Been there, done that.

**Winking at you, state of Arizona.

This all interestingly dovetails with my last post…on March 15 (really? I am that lazy a blogger, apparently).

During my stay at Hedgebrook (post on that TK, I swear), I had the pleasure of being in residence with a group of amazingly rad writers, most of whom were working in literary fiction (with the notable exception of a genius poet working in form and a delightful NF/screenwriter), who, after hearing my work, grilled me tenderly about WTF the difference was these days between literary and SFF–especially since my own work was so obviously informed by what is usually (wrongly, IMHO) considered the concerns of literary fiction over SFF (character, language vs. idea and plot). I, of course, went promising a reading list of SFF that I think effectively (and once and for all) blurs the lines between speculative and literary–which, being me, has slipped until right this freaking minute.

Granted, he was not responsible for being named Paul Atreides, but here are the top five reasons I have begun to suspect that OUR boy* CAT MAY BE A GEEK:

1. He always has crumbs of food on his chin.
2. He’s not always very conscientious about his hair or hygiene.
3. He enjoys playing games that involve lasers or chasing cursors on a screen.
4. He’s a little awkward in social situations.
5. He lives at home and has no job**.

A classy geek portrait:

*our girl cat, Molly Bloom, is a totally different story, for another time.

**OK, OK, a joke!