Hippie Gear

One early Saturday afternoon I found myself in a peculiar setting in the corner room of a rental house with an older hippie woman who had hairy legs and armpits and wore a long skirt, a tank top and no bra. I had met her and her husband at our favorite pub the night before and offered to help them move the following day. In the midst of packing boxes into a U-Haul, she and I later shared a smoke while a big, fluffy black cat played in a pile of shredded paper stuffed into a black trash-bag nearby. Sunlight streamed through the east- and south-facing windows, and healthy green sprigs of a hanging plant danced in the rays of light. I sat on top of a pillow, surrounded by boxes of crystals. We smoked as she talked about chakras and blessing her new house, calling in the “Goddess” to come whenever she wants and make herself comfortable.

Among a pile of books I spied a worn paperback called “The Tales of Neveryon,” the cover of which depicted a tall, dark and handsome male, scantily clad and wielding his “dagger” to save a young mistress. It was a book I knew I would never read.

Other fat cats with names like Rufus and Gandolf lazily sauntered through the nearly empty halls of the house they were about to vacate. I felt high and a little odd as this woman began to show me the costumes she has created for various festivals celebrating science fiction, fantasy and the Renaissance. The costumes, I daresay, were lovely, made of flowing fabrics that must feel like Heaven when wrapped around the female form. She has made skirts, petticoats, tunics, bustiers, headdresses and staffs covered with velvet, crystals, metallic fabrics and silks. She was very excited to show each piece to me and I was happy to see each new installment.

She became increasingly excited as she went to a closet in the back room and brought down a large box, roughly 24”x18”x8”. She opened the lid to a top layer of egg-crate foam, which she gingerly lifted to reveal an ornate black and silver headdress; its width spanned the entire box. It was marvelous – a black mask with dangly silver beads, a quartz crystal in the center of the forehead, black feathers and gemstones. She was so proud, so delicate with it, and proceeded to hold it to her face and dance a little from side to side. It was a strange moment, yet I soaked in every silent detail.

She then tucked the headdress away, back in the box, kissed her finger and touched it in a last goodbye, muttering “Bye baby.” She replaced the green egg-crate foam and closed the box and placed it into the closet.

Though I could identify with few, if any, of these things that brought her such joy, I felt connected to her willingness to be herself so boldly and wholeheartedly.