Farm Girl Fashionista

I'm not a trendy person. As a matter of fact, I loathe shopping. My clothes come from three places--East Meets West, the local animal shelter's thrift store and hand-me-downs from my mother. As a farmer, going on a shopping spree to outfit myself for the 'office' is just plain stupid. I do keep some key items free of manure stains and horn holes to make myself presentable on market day, but for the most part, clothing must be functional, inexpensive and ready to be destroyed at any moment.

Similarly, I take the same stance on my hair....practical. Monthly trips to the salon for a trim, color, perm, highlights, roots, whatever...has just never been on my priority list. Yes, when I had the two-toned mottled skunk look going on earlier in the spring I succumbed to Lady Clairol, but for the most part, I tame my mane with clips or single long spikes which include pencils, chopsticks and paintbrushes.

But today I couldn't locate any of those items and used the closest thing at hand--an errant tail feather from my new Barred Rock Rooster, Schtupp. Little did I realize the black and white cock was about to spur me into the world of high fashion.

It started at the bank. "Oh my gawd, that feather is soooo cool," squealed all the ladies. "Where did you get one so big?"

"One what?" I was oblivious.

"Your hair feather."

Dare I tell them that I picked it off the litter, grit and shit-covered floor of my hen house when my hair kept getting in my face, irritating me to pin it up with the first thing I spied that would work.

"It was a present from my rooster," I replied, leaving them all speechless as they well knew I farmed.A firm believer in local economies and a creature of habit, I continued with my Monday routine of the bank, post office, library, hardware store, thrift shop and boutique in downtown.

Standing in line at the post office, the lady behind me was next.

"Oh, I love your feather. It's so different from the ones all the college girls are getting melted into their hair." Did I hear her right? Melted into their hair? And then I remembered the story in the New York Times earlier in the summer about how women were buying up all the hackles used in fly-tying for hair accoutrement.In the two blocks between the post office and my car parked back at the bank, I encountered TWO places offering hair feathers--a salon and my favorite boutique, where they hung next to the cash register...an obvious impulse item display.
"That's a Guinea Hen wing feather, a Pheasant breast feather and the hackle off some rooster," I told the boutique owner as she rang up my greeting card purchase. "And just what kind of feather do you have in your hair today?"

And then the idea for another revenue stream hit me.

So not everything that comes out of my pasture will go on the plate. Some of it might even go into your hair!