A woman’s hair is her crowning glory. So said my Primitive Baptist grandmother, Mama Bea. My crowning glory has graced several different cultures and transformed from frivolous to practical.

I attended one of those high schools where every day was a fashion show. I dutifully permed my hair about once a month and styled it, using the latest fads: teased, crimped, flat-ironed, gelled around the edges and shaved along the neck and temples with plenty of humidity-defying hairspray. Just about everything but artificially coloring it since I liked the colors of my naturally sun-bleached hair.

All that fashion show crap went out the window when I attended college. No time to be cute. Plus, looking a little “granola” was the “in” thing, which meant I’d even stopped wearing makeup and ironing my clothes on a daily basis. I used to roll my hair at night, but discovered a ponytail would do for most days and the curling iron worked for those special occasions. Besides, fashionable hair didn’t make me any smarter.

In my senior year, I suddenly realized that the collegiate gravy train was just about over. Not wanting to get a real job nor enter graduate school, I applied to the Peace Corps. On my application, I wrote that I wanted to go to French-speaking Africa. Basically I wanted a payoff for studying that language for six years. When Peace Corps told me I’d have to wait nearly a year for such a placement, I agreed to go to an English-speaking African country since I could leave the States much sooner.

When I arrived in Tanzania, an East African country, I stayed with a host family for the first two months during my training. As I showed one of my host sisters some pictures from home, she exclaimed, “Oh, you’re the African American!” They had heard one black person was among this Peace Corps training group. Of course she could hardly tell I was black. My hair was freshly permed and in a French roll. Also I was very light-skinned compared to the average Tanzanian. As a matter of fact, when I walked around the community, some Tanzanians yelled, “Half-casti, half-casti, half-casti!” (half-caste), which I found a little strange since both of my parents were black.

I assumed since Tanzania was an African country, I’d easily find suitable hair care products. Well, yes and no. They were available, but very expensive, for both the average Tanzanian and Peace Corps Volunteer.

For the first time in my life, I discovered how precious freshwater was. I developed a preoccupation with it. For drinking, bathing, washing my clothes and hair, and cooking. I visited one beauty salon during training to get my hair washed, dried and braided as a work around for securing freshwater.

Once I moved to my permanent site, I’d either wear my hair in twists or have one of the housegirls to braid it. Yet, I never justified spending a small fortune on a perm. The real fortune in freshwater was more costly. One time, I washed my hair during a bucket bath and rinsed it over the toilet in order to flush it. Water was in short supply and I needed to accomplish both things.

A few months later, I started my dreads. Suddenly I was free. With a low-maintenance hairstyle, I didn’t have to perm it, use a lot of water washing the perm out, curl it nor worry about blow-drying it straight. This gave Tanzanians something new to shout at me: “Tracy Chapman, Tracy Chapman, Tracy Chapman!”

While vacationing in Kenya, one enthusiastic guy yelled out extra loud, “Rasta Woman!” By this time, I was so used to ignoring obnoxious screaming that I showed no outward reaction to what he’d said. A few seconds later he said much quieter, “Rasta man?”

Granted, I was looking pretty Peace Corps shabby by that point. I’d bought one of those oversized cloth caps to tuck my dreads in and sported worn-out mostly clean pants with oversized T-shirts. So, I could understand his confusion about my gender.

When I returned to the States, one of my sisters lovingly pruned my dreads, cutting out all the knots. They had never looked so good. Despite this, all my female relatives who were at least thirty years older than me hated my hair. They collectively harassed me worse than excitable Tanzanians. They offered to cut them off, reverse them, pay for the trip to the salon, and some even referred to them as “nigger naps.”

In their younger days, these women had been subjected to the vaudeville stereotypical depictions of blacks. They had been rewarded by racist, including intraracist, society to look as white as possible. Hair was not to be worn naturally, unless as a short Afro for men or pressed with a hot comb to appear straight for women. Even the notion of “good hair” meant a black person did not have nappy hair.

The two worse culprits were Mom and Mama Bea. Mama Bea took me aside at one point and confided that she’d never told me while I was growing up that she thought I was her prettiest granddaughter. Adding to the guilt trip was the look she gave me as she shook her head over my insistence to wear dreads.

Mom persisted for nearly twenty years, trying to convince me to undo my locks. Part of her argument was I just kept them out of spite. Granted, we had clashed when I was growing up since our personalities were too much alike although she never acknowledged it. Just kept wondering aloud where I got my attitude from. She’d offered to reverse my locks herself with the help of detangling shampoo and conditioner, not really appreciating what “locked” meant.

After a while, everyone else in the immediate family was on my side and told Mom that she needed to get over it. Then, Mom announced that I’d agreed to cut them off if she’d stopped nagging me. I told her that she must have been dreaming. Given the fact that no one else had witnessed this so-called conversation, she was finally convinced it hadn’t happened.

While Mom nagged away about my dreads, I continued traveling and teaching around the world. My next teaching assignment was in Seoul, Korea, where I looked so exotic, most Koreans assumed I was Filipina. At least there was no aggressive heckling, just a lot of “wah!” as I walked by. Yet, I felt somewhat empowered since a stern teacher’s look would silence them to look away, nervously giggling.

For this teaching assignment, I had a new set of adult conversation and writing classes every month. On the first day of class, I used to allow all of my students to touch my locks. I met my lifetime quota of that after about three months.

The fiercest Koreans were the ajumahs, the grandmothers. These older women were beyond the age of giving a damn about personal space or social graces. Foreign men, who towered above most Koreans, walked through crowds with both hands protecting their family jewels since they knew the probability was high an ajumah’s elbow would strike them if these men were in her way. These same women showed no restraint to cop a feel of my dreads if I sat in front of them on public transportation.

I often visited museums and art galleries. If I stayed in one spot too long, looking at something, a small crowd of Koreans would form around me as if I was on display with a few ajumahs slowly reaching up to touch my hair.

At one of my lowest points of living in Korea, I had been waiting at a bus stop. Instead of zoning out, I happened to look up at the people on the bus in front of me, all staring. Starting with the back of the bus, I made eye contact with each of them while giving them the finger, a meaningless gesture in that culture.

Yet, I got my comeuppance some time later while walking around an unfamiliar shopping district. I turned the corner and jumped back with a scream. Standing before me was a mirrored building, reflecting my own image. I laughed then understood how jarring it was to come across me among a sea of Koreans.

Afterwards, I moved to Denver, CO where more white people had dreads than black. I’d never lived in such a dry climate before. Previously, I’d had an illusion that dreads were indestructible. I learned too late that when they’re not properly moisturized, dreads thinned out like ropes. For the first time I had to chop them down to one-third their length. Looking back at pictures of myself from that time, I looked attractive, but I remember how ugly and ashamed I felt over the loss of my hair. I’d finally internalized Mama Bea’s crowning glory belief. Of course, Mom couldn’t resist telling me I should cut them all off.

When Dubyah stole the 2000 election, I went into exile by getting a teaching job in Egypt. My Egyptian students just knew I’d be the laid-back math teacher since I had dreads. They confided to another foreign teacher that people with dreads smoked marijuana; so they’d all have A’s in my class. Imagine their disappointment when I turned out to be one of their strictest teachers. I guess no one had told them that most math teachers were almost as exacting as equations.

Then I moved to Monterrey, Mexico. My blonde blue-eyed principal marveled at how well I handled all the attention. I laughed and told her that that was nothing compared to the attention I’d received in all the other foreign countries. No heckling, no over-the-top animated nonverbal actions, very little copping a feel although they always went for the hair in the back. I guess the logic was if I didn’t see them doing it, then I wouldn’t know they were doing it. This despite the fact that my hair is attached to my scalp.

In the three years of living in Mexico, the only Mexican who managed to piss me off was at a book fair—of all places! When I’d finished looking at a group of books on a long narrow table, I walked off, not realizing that she had reached across and entangled her curious fingers into my mop of hair. I screamed, more out of shock than pain. Once I recovered my hair, a swell of other shoppers had come between us. I gave that woman a deadly look as she nervously smiled at me, waving in a friendly manner. I turned on my heels and stomped away.

Following Mexico, I taught in Honduras for three years. I hardly ever walked anywhere among the general population. At that time, Honduras was the second poorest country in the Western hemisphere. There was preoccupation among my rich students and my colleagues about being robbed. My American principal assured me every week that I’d eventually be mugged if I kept walking the three blocks from my apartment to school. After two months, I’d saved up enough money to buy a reliable used car. I immediately got the windows tinted. It’s amazing how I used money to sequester myself, but I swear it was only for safety. I don’t think anyone would have mugged me because of my dreads, but my watch, cell phone and money were different stories. The only mildly annoying reaction my dreads caused was some parents referring to me as “Jamaican.”

Finally, I moved to Austin: the land of tattoos, piercings, unnatural hair color, mohawks, flattops, unisex bald heads, where women dressed up to go out and the men simply rolled out of bed. Honey, I’m home!

About two and a half hours before showtime, I learned that one of my younger cousins was in a rock band, playing less than ten minutes from where I live.

The door guy was about to charge me an entrance fee when I told him that my cousin was in the band. When he asked which one, I burst out laughing. I said, “Believe it or not, my cousin is the other black person with dreads!”

I got to see my cousin Travis for the first time since the summer. Although it was the first time they’d all played together at an gig, they had some cool Tshirts.

Three out of five of the band members were new.

Travis was the latest addition. Afterwards, he said that this was the most professional band that he’d ever played in.

Interesting, as a recent college graduate with an electrical engineering degree, his first jobs were working at a retail tech store and playing in a rock band!

I’m wondering how long it will take for him to get a “real” job. At the same time, I’m so happy that he’s making the best of his life.

Here’s the part where I tried to get all “artsy” with my picture-taking.

Out of several shots, this was the only one that came out decent.

After their show ended, Travis’ parents and older brother finally arrived from Killeen. On this particular night, three bands were being showcased; so everyone only got about 45 minutes to play. At least they’d arrived safely after coming breakneck speed to Austin.

One unexpected treat: I received one of Travis’ complimentary drink tickets.  Of course I went for a girlie drink, the cosmo.

I took advantage of all the photo ops.

Or as I like to think of it, blog content!

I convinced my cousins that the pizza place just across the street was delicious and our best, closest option.

Nonetheless, someone, who shall remain nameless (but you can figure out who by the picture) had to debate both sides of eating there.

After we’d finished eating, there was one more “family reunion” at the pizza place just before we left. Since I’ll probably never visit him at work, I took pictures of his cruiser–not sure if that’s actually what it’s called.

And what a portable office! That’s nothing like the TV dramas.

This impromptu research all started because one of my cousin’s sent me a picture of her Bloody Mary; so I had to go to the same restaurant and see for myself.  Sure enough, their standards were consistent. Every Bloody Mary came decked out with a full strip of crisp bacon and a skewer of cheddar cheese, a jalapeño, and a green olive.

For fun, I went to a professional happy hour and ordered a Bloody Mary. I showed the bartender the decked out Bloody Mary with the bacon and other adornments and asked if he could make one as good as that.  He shook his head and said that he could make one, but it wouldn’t come with bacon. Then, he deferred to another bartender, who got the senior-most bartender, who actually made the drink. It originally came with a pickle, a jalapeño, and a green olive. The first bartender who’d waited on me had visited the kitchen, cubed some cheese and added it to the drink. Not bad for going the extra mile (for them) to satisfy the customer. The effort was reflected in my tip.

By the time I approached the third place a few weeks later, I informed the bartender that I was conducting research to find which place served the best Bloody Mary and showed him the picture. Again, bacon was off the table, but I think he tripled up the green olives and doubled the lemon wedges so his version would’t look so “naked.” After this, I’d heard of a restaurant that had a Bloody Mary bar buffet on the weekends from 11-4.

I arrived at 10:45, thinking that I could take pictures of the Bloody Mary buffet before other customers could mess anything up. Yet the buffet was already open and a guy was embellishing his cup of vodka. I greeted him and told him that I was there to take pictures of the Bloody Mary bar. I didn’t want him to be alarmed at my picture taking.  He joked about being used to women taking his picture. After about 5 minutes of maneuvering around him, I politely let him know that I wanted my pictures without him in the shot! So the Bloody Mary buffet consists of various pickled veggies and pepperoni, four different mixes, celery, salts and hot sauces.

With so many choices of practically everything, I figured the rookie mistake would be to put too much stuff in the cup and ruin it.

Yet the one thing I did not find, but ordered to go on the side was sliced avocado. After all, my palate sought things that would go with spicy tomato juice.

My waitress recommended the house Bloody Mary mix. 

Technically, if one uses clamato, then it’s a Bloody Cesar.

And if one uses tequila instead of vodka, it’s a Bloody Maria.

As promised in my mass email to friends about this Bloody Mary research, I’d cut up straws in order to make hygienic samples of other people’s drinks.

I set some of the straws in a cup for convenience. Plus, as a former secondary teacher, I thought it would be prudent not to have the whole stash out all at once.

I also went with the waitress-recommended choice of alcohol: F-ing cucumber vodka. Not the flavor of vodka I’d drink straight, but it definitely worked as a Bloody Mary base.

Here’s the first version of my Bloody Mary: F-ing cucumber vodka, no salt, Freddie’s Bloody Mary Mix, dashes of Cholula and worcestershire sauce, pepperoni, green olives, cherry peppers, banana peppers, avocado. This was absolutely the best Bloody Mary–of course since I made it exactly the way I wanted it. 

I could hardly wait for my burger to eat it along with my drink.  

I plopped the dill pickle into the Bloody Mary. By the time I got my cell phone camera ready, the pickle had dunked itself into Bloody Mary awesomeness. I propped it back up to pose for a good picture.

The first friend showed up and made her Bloody Mary: F-ing cucumber vodka with salt, pepperoni, Freddie’s Bloody Mary mix, pickle, olives, garlic, garlic salt, celerity salt, chili lime salt. Salty-savory, but still yummy!

The second friend arrived. Although she just wanted to sip the vodka, she complied and made her Bloody Mary: Tito’s vodka, no salt, Freddie’s Bloody Mary mix, celery salt, tabasco, lime, olives, celery.  It had a strong celery taste. Nonetheless, I still thought it was yummy.

By the time the third friend showed up, Freddie’s Bloody Mary mix was temporarily out.

Nonetheless, he made a very tasty Bloody Mary: Tito’s vodka, clamato, olives, cherry peppers, celery salt, pickled okra (which, in my haste, I didn’t even know was up there!), horseradish, lots of celery salt (since he didn’t realize it was a flip top).  

No surprise that it had a pronounced celery taste, but no spicy kick. For his second one, he used Freddie’s Bloody Mary mix and the same ingredients as the first one. I think the second one tasted better and definitely looked prettier, which goes to show that practice does make perfect!

The fourth friend who showed up ordered a paloma (tequila, grapefruit soda, lime juice and salt rim)! When questioned about showing up for a Bloody Mary research and NOT ordering the featured drink, she just shrugged her shoulders and said that palomas were good. Of course, I still sampled it and found it as delicious as ever.

As a child, whenever I became sick, Dr. Velma, as Mom referred to herself, came to the rescue. She’d never attended any recognized medical school. She’d just survived growing up with my grandmother, who we grandchildren affectionately called “Mama Bea.”

Under Mama Bea’s care, Little Velma, the youngest child, drank sugary beer slushies so she’d have an appetite to gain weight. The sugar was added because Little Velma didn’t like the taste of beer. When Dr. Velma told me about this childhood weight-gain home remedy, I pointed out that’s why she’d been addicted to those sugary slushies sold at gas stations. Weird thing was the only time Dr. Velma craved those slushies was when she was traveling on long-distance trips. Just as abruptly as her addiction arose in her 40s, it ended for some reason in her 60s.

I was also underweight as a child, but Dr. Velma didn’t make me any sugary beer slushies. She’d secretly mix a raw egg in my hot chocolate since I wouldn’t eat much breakfast, but I had a sweet tooth just like her. A few years later, she gave me Flintstone vitamins.

When Little Velma had a cold, Mama Bea gave her moonshine. Mama Bea boiled the moonshine, added a little sugar, then when the sugar had just about dissolved, lit it on fire and had Little Velma drink it hot like a cup of coffee. Little Velma would drink this just before going to bed and sweat out the cold as she slept. She’d wake up the next morning and no longer have a cold.

For a mere itchy throat Mama Bea gave Little Velma a small dollop of Vicks vapor rub to swallow. Dr. Velma still does this right before going to bed, especially after she’s been around someone who was coughing and sneezing. Or “snottin’ and snarlin’,” as she calls it!

Dr. Velma also recommends using garlic shots for a cold. One of my sisters peels and crushes a clove of garlic in a tablespoon and adds a little orange juice for her three kids and anyone else who feels as if a cold coming on. I personally don’t need such fancy adornments my garlic shots. I just peel and cut up a clove of garlic and swallow the pieces just like pills.

One time Little Velma cut her ankle on broken glass. Her grandfather put soot from the chimney on it to stop the bleeding. To this day, Dr. Velma can show you where that soot is still on her ankle. Although Dr. Velma says you can use cobwebs to stop a bleeding wound, she’s never tried it herself. Of course, I just stick to Band-Aids!

My earliest recollection of Dr. Velma’s treatments was for a stomachache. I suffered from digestive problems as a child. So, Dr. Velma would mix liniment with milk and sugar. I’d drink that like a good little patient until I read the small, red bold print on the bottle, which stated that liniment was for external use only. Oh, you should’ve heard me roar about how she was trying to kill me, disregarding the fact that I’d survived the liniment treatment several times prior.

Lucky for my older sisters and me, Dr. Velma drank ginger ale for an upset stomach while she was pregnant with each of us.

While working as a bank teller in the basement of a hospital, Dr. Velma had a case of the hiccups. A customer told her to put a little sugar under her tongue. She claims that’s worked for her hiccups ever since.

In the 80s, Dr. Velma took pain medications that caused constipation. She recalled years earlier when Mama Bea told her this home remedy: dissolve a teaspoon of baking soda in water followed by a vinegar chaser. Remember all those elementary school volcano simulations? Well, it also moves bowels!

Dr. Velma has been married to Dad for over 50 years. Once, she tried his home remedy for constipation. Dad drinks a mixture of prune juice and orange juice just before bed and has a bowel movement early the next morning. When Dr. Velma tried it, she became so gassy, she couldn’t sleep for fear of having an accident. Now, she only uses Dad’s constipation treatment in the morning.

My two older sisters and I inherited our oily skin from our mother. The first of Dr. Velma’s two favorite oily skin and acne treatments is swabbing original Listerine on her face with a cotton pad, followed by facial lotion. The second remedy is using milk of magnesia as a facial mask, which she washes off after about 30 minutes, unless it’s an overnight treatment. One of Dr. Velma’s nieces suggested using first morning pee as acne treatment. As far as Dr. Velma’s concerned, there’s only one place pee goes and that’s not on her face.

As a younger woman, Dr. Velma had heard about boiling a pinecone and drinking the tea from it to relieve arthritis. By the time Dr. Velma was old enough to suffer from arthritis, she didn’t bother with pinecone tea. She just sprayed WD40 on her joints. Now in her seventies, Dr. Velma eats nine gin-soaked golden raisins to treat the arthritis in her knee. I’ve often teased her that that home remedy only works because she keeps her knee drunk.

To treat the arthritis in her hip, Dr. Velma places a banana peel in a jar of red sports rubbing alcohol. She takes a cotton pad and rubs that alcohol on her hip. Even when the banana peel turns black, Dr. Velma doesn’t worry because the treatment still works! She only uses it at night because of the smell, plus her hip doesn’t hurt during the day.

Lastly every morning, Dr. Velma cuts up fresh ginger, boils it and mixes in a little orange juice and drinks it for general good health. This comes after her daily breakfast smoothie, which usually contains an apple, an orange, spinach or kale, a banana, a celery stalk, a carrot, pineapple or strawberries, a nice squirt of agava to sweeten it, four tablespoons of oatmeal, a wee bit of orange juice and a tray of ice cubes.

Given the rising costs of just stepping into a clinic or hospital and the fact that I’m middle-aged, I’ve stopped laughing at Dr. Velma’s old-timey, inexpensive solutions to medical inconveniences. I may not have access to moonshine and don’t buy liniment, but I’ve found tequila works just as well in a hot toddy or for digestive problems. I love eating fresh food, seasoned with garlic and red peppers and/or red hot sauce and occasionally fresh ginger—all of which heat up the body and make it more challenging for germs. I may never reach unofficial doctor status for my home remedies, but I can at least be the family historian.