You asked for it...

Some of my commenters wanted photos.

I didn't actually post the photos because by the end of yesterday I was so grossed out that I couldn't look at them and I didn't think anyone else would want to either.

So please stop reading now if you don't want to look at photos.

I should tell you that there were some tails that the abattoir blokes had cleaned up for me (which is lovely of them to have done when I wasn't being charged for them), but the truck driver didn't know that he was supposed to pick up tails and they went feral (or should that be more feral?). So I got these 'fresh' ones.

I meant it - I'm going to post the photos.

I didn't take many because once my hands were dirty there was no way I was going to touch my camera, but these are what I have.

After the first rinse and swish. I'm sort of sorry I can't embed the overpowering smell to go with these. Believe me the experience is missing something (thankfully).


A close up, trying to show the cloddy matter I was dealing with:-


My very brave mother helped with the first rinse:-

Numerous rinses and an hour of combing and cutting later, this is what they are like this morning. All the icky bits are double bagged and binned:

I still need to wash them again. Probably will put lots of conditioner in and comb them through to get the last bits of chaff out. Then I'm going to get some hair dye (one that covers grey) and try to make them all black. Then I have to attach them to the tape. This should be interesting.

So when you discover that it costs one hundred dollars to get real horse hair it is worth it. There is a reason that it is expensive. Either pay up the bucks or go with the knitting cotton option.

The chance that anything in life is free?

... Approximately None. This mane and tail were very dearly bought.

And on a related matter it seems tentatively possible that the scent of soap and hand cream has masked the smell of manure.

Life Here at the Feed Lot

Today I did the most disgusting job I have ever had to do.

Greater love has no aunt than that she would try to source real-looking hair for her niece's rockinghorse.

My tail hair was ready to be picked up today. The butcher told Mum yesterday that my ox tails would be ready today. Mum was a bit perplexed as the butchers always have ox tail bones for soup on hand in winter. She only got back from the Kimberleys the day before and hadn't caught up on my blog.

I went to pick them up (and happened to have Mum in the car) we brought them home and dumped them into the laundry tubs.

The tail hair of the bovine creature starts above the end of the skin and bone that makes up the tail. The butchers had kindly given me a generous portion of tail so that I could harvest as much hair as possible.

There were also clods of manure stuck to much of the hair. Mum and I gave a quick rinse, then left them to soak. Unfortunately I didn't close the laundry door while we were in there, and the smell was starting to permeate the rest of the house. Pure, unadulterated feed lot smell. I closed the door and opened every window in the house that I could think of at that point, then Mum and I went onto the other thing we were working on.

After a while I couldn't smell it anymore and was hoping that the house was clear of it, rather than that my nose had lost all ability to smell. Mum informed me that it was the latter. Great.

Later I came back into the house and went downstairs to deal with them. You've heard of smells that could knock you over? I opened the laundry door and was almost knocked to the floor. I spent the better part of an hour combing (never using that comb again) out quantities of cloddy matter and cutting (never using those scissors again) the usable hair off the tails and securing the good hair with rubber bands.

By the time that was done I felt putrid. I had a meeting to go to and decided that a shower and total change of clothes was more important than lunch (I didn't have time for both). I bathed, changed clothes, showered (including washing my hair) and went to the meeting.

I had decided to wash my hair and totally change every stitch of clothing because I didn't want to be in a meeting, still smelling that rich feedlot smell, and thinking that it was in anyway possible that it wasn't psycological.

So I felt clean. Until I was offered a cuppa and biscuit when I realised that my hands STILL SMELLED OF MANURE. Every time I raised the cup or the bickie, I could smell it. In fact I can still smell it now. It's never coming off.

This had better be worth it.

The chances that this doesn't beat any possible parenting gross-me-out story?

... Approximately None.

Such a story would have to involve faecal matter and blood in hair and cutting through strips of flesh with blunt scissors. Oh, and SMELL! You can't win.

The Slaggin' Dragon

Why does laundry day come around so regularly?

And why is there always some garment that needs special attention?

My Beloved had blood on one of his shirts. And in a shirt with striped sections why did it have to be on the white, rather than the bottle green?

My Mum has passed on a number of laundry tips over the years, for example oily stains can be removed with a combination of Sunshine Soap and Spit. Sounds lovely and alliterative, but is just plain disgusting. Apparently there are greeblies in saliva that break down oily substances. And it works. But it's disgusting and I hate doing it. None of the pre-wash stain removers seem to get the residual oil out, even if they take out any colour associated with the stain - so I spit.

The other one (that's actually relevant to today's post) stems from when Mum did a couture dressmaking course years ago. Apparently all dressmakers live in dread of accidentally pricking themselves on a pin when making a wedding dress and leaving a tiny blood spot on the snowy fabric. And Mum was given the top secret, fail-safe remedy for this disaster.

At this point, I think I should warn Givinya that she proceeds at her own peril. She is the one person I know who can both identify my Mum and also had her wedding dress made by Mum. Mind you, I don't think she needed to use this special method on your dress, but I can't be certain.

So it turns out saliva works here, too. But according to Mum it has to be the saliva of the bleedee. Now I can see everyone reading this who has ever been married is wondering if the dressmaker pricked themselves. This would mean that on the one day of our lives that we looked most radiant, wearing the most expensive dress we have ever worn, we may have been walking around in the only dress we've ever owned that has been spat on. Congratulations!

Mum made my wedding dress, but as if I'd worry. She used to spit on a tissue and clean my face with it! How's spitting on a dress going to hurt?

Back to my Beloved's shirt. It was his blood. He was at work. I thought I'd try the ol' spit method anyway. I don't know whether it's that Mum's right that it has to be the bleedee that spits, or whether my saliva hasn't had the chance to be turned into an industrial strength cleaner with the aid of pregnancy hormones. How much effect did it have?

...Approximately None.