How to Tie a Christy Pañuelo

Step 1: Lay out a square bandanna or scarf. Yes, a square. Which limits you, because a lot of scarves sold today are rectangular. Save those lovely rectangular scarves to wear around your neck. My favorite fabric is rayon batik, because it has a nice drape and the pattern is the same on both sides. Cotton batik is also nice, but the drape is a bit stiffer. A standard 100% cotton bandanna is fine and will soften over time, especially if you dry it in the dryer. Wool is scratchy against my sensitive scalp and silk doesn't like to stay in place on a bare head. But that's just me. What works for you will depend on how much hair you have, how itch tolerant you are, and what look you're going for.

Step 2: Fold the square tip to tip to form a triangle. If it's a large scarf like the pañuelos my mother sews for me (27"x27"ish or more), proceed to step 3.

Note: If it's a typical bandanna (20"x20"ish), you might want to give yourself more fabric to work with, which can be done by shifting one tip down a few inches.







Step 3: Drape the long flat end across your forehead. If you've assembled your triangle tip to tip, then it doesn't matter which side you use because they're both the same. If you've extended your fabric like the example above, be sure to put the larger, uninterrupted side on the outside.









Note: At the back you should have three tails.

Step 4: Tighten the flat end across your forehead. Play with positioning so that you get the amount of forehead you want to show. Some people prefer their headscarves low; others like them at the hairline so they're able to display their entire forehead. Place your scarf where you feel most comfortable.








Step 5: Take the two outer tips and tie them over the middle triangular flap. I like to use a double knot: right over left and around, left over right and around -- just as I learned in Girl Scouts. Tie the knot as tight as you can; it will loosen up the minute you let go of the fabric, and even more so throughout the day. In fact you may want to retie throughout the day just to be sure your scarf stays securely in place.

Step 6: Smooth down the middle flap. Pull down any bunched up fabric that's hiding under the headscarf so that it hangs nicely in the back. Work out any wrinkles and bumps in the front. Readjust where your scarf crosses your forehead, if necessary. Smile like a crazy person and hit the town!





How do you tie your headscarves? I'd love to get your ideas!

What Does My Hair Say About Me? Apparently, That I'm a Pirate

Growing up, my hair said I was a follower. I had a short Twiggy shag and a Farrah Fawcett feathery flip, Madonna's teased hair and a Molly Ringwald poodle perm bob - always well after the trend had caught on.

The pattern stops at The Rachel, the bouncy, long, layered hairstyle introduced and popularized by Jennifer Aniston in the first season of Friends. That was the year I transitioned from late majority follower to trendsetter. I use the term loosely, because I was not setting trends that generated followers: the oddly placed barrette, the female combover, the office beret, the synthetic strip of bangs velcroed to a baseball cap.

Let's be clear: I did not want to separate myself from the crowd. I was dragged away kicking and screaming. For some of us, that's the only way to cross the chasm from one way of thinking to another.

If my hair hadn't fallen out, I probably wouldn't have adopted a style of my own, especially one that sends such mixed messages. Today, I am Pañuelo Girl, the girl who wears scarves. It means different things to different people, and I'm okay with that.

Sean said he thought I was a motorcycle chick.

Jane said she thought I was stylish.

Every now and then a guy - usually an African American - thinks I am a hip hop girl.

Of course, there are those who think I have cancer.

Kids have their own ideas about scarves. One day I was working the volunteer registration booth for a trail cleanup project, when a four-year-old boy approached me, cocked his head to the left, and asked, "Are you a pirate?"

"Why, yes, how did you know?" I laughed.

"Because of that thing on your head!" He was talking about my black scarf, tied do-rag style, with a double knot at the back of my head, long tails hanging down my back. He grinned and turned to the man behind him. "She’s a real pirate, grandpa!"

I had to smile.

People will always apply their own perspective to what they see, but that doesn't change who or what I am.

What does my "hairdo" say about me? It says I'm comfortable with myself, that I don't mind standing out in a crowd, that I embrace my individuality. It says I'm more than my hair.

What does your hair say about you?

Read this Oprah magazine story to find out what other women are saying about their hair.

© 2009 Christy Bailey

The Sisterhood Fraud

It happened again.

I am shopping at Macy’s when a curly-haired brunette catches my eye from across the circular clearance rack.

“Chemo?”

“No,” I hold her gaze. “Alopecia.”

“Ah. I know alopecia. Your hair will grow back.”

In my alopecia support group, I’ve known alopecians whose hair grew back. Jeanne’s regrowth was triggered by pregnancy. Something about the hormonal changes of carrying a child reversed the immune system’s attack on the hair follicles. Her hair fell out again post-pregnancy, but for a time she got to feel the wind blowing through her hair without the slightest bit of worry. Lorna got her hair back after getting a series of steroid shots in her head. That’s a common treatment for alopecia, but only for the short-term, and usually for small patches instead of whole heads. Most doctors won’t even do it in cases like hers. But Lorna is articulate, and clever, and she talked a hesitant doc into it – with great success. Several other ladies got their hair back unexpectedly, spontaneously, for no known reason. Alopecia is unpredictable like that. You never know what could happen.

I haven’t had a full head of hair for sixteen years. At this point, it is highly unlikely my hair will grow back.

But to my fellow shopper, I don’t say that.

She goes on to tell me she’s a hospice nurse, and a cancer survivor. “I’m sorry to bother you, I just can’t help myself. I get so passionate about helping people with cancer.” She looks at my scarf, the dressy black one I tied on that morning for a meeting in The District. “And I just thought, well, you know.”

Sometimes I feel like a fraud.

Well-meaning women see the scarf as a signal that I’m in the sisterhood, an invitation to connect. They tap me on the shoulder while I’m reaching into the grocery store freezer. They approach me while I’m sitting at a restaurant waiting for a friend. They lean over at a wedding and place a hand on mine, gently, tenderly, and tell me I’m going to make it. They’re not talking about the hair; they think I have cancer.

Each time, I provide a brief, educational statement about my own disease. Just like the Macy’s shopper, they listen. They wish me well. They usually apologize.

No, I want to say, I’m the one who’s sorry, for drawing you in unnecessarily, for misrepresenting myself, for committing sisterhood fraud – as if scarves are reserved for the sick, the domain of cancer patients actively undergoing chemotherapy.

From Merriam-Webster:
Fraud \ˈfrȯd\ noun
1 a: deceit, trickery ; specifically : intentional perversion of truth in order to induce another to part with something of value or to surrender a legal right b: an act of deceiving or misrepresenting : trick
2 a: a person who is not what he or she pretends to be : impostor ; also : one who defrauds : cheat b: one that is not what it seems or is represented to be

I do not wear scarves to solicit support from people whose lives have been touched by cancer. I wear them because they’re comfortable, and fun, and affordable. I am pañuelo girl, the girl with the scarves.

And in all honesty, I felt more like a fraud when I wore wigs, especially once I upgraded to the vacuum-seal, custom hair pieces made of fine European hair. People asked where I got my hair cut, what dye color I used, how on earth did it dry so fast? I could have fessed up, but I didn’t have to: $3,500 buys you a natural look, one that easily fools people.

Of course, I didn’t want to discuss alopecia back then. A headscarf, especially on a bald girl, can be a conversation starter. You have to be prepared for questions. You have to want to explain and educate.

Shortly after the Macy’s shopper and I part ways, she pops her head back around the corner.

“You know, you don’t really need hair,” she says. “You’re beautiful without it.”

Maybe the sisterhood extends well beyond cancer.

© 2009 Christy Bailey