The 60’s: Chapter 11

Dirty Hippies

I am now going to dispel the myth of the dirty hippies. There were some, but in my case…

I was the cleanest hippy in the Bay Area. I’ve always been fussy about that kind of thing, and in those days, wherever I went I had my little blue bag. It would rest at the bottom of my enormous purse, one that I had luckily acquired at Goodwill.

I never went anywhere without that little zippered blue baby.

The bag contained; birth control pills, and I never missed a dose. I always had a toothbrush and toothpaste and I would use same, two or three times a day. No matter how stoned or fucked up I was I always got tidied up. I carried a nice clean wash cloth and a bar of soap, that I kept in a small pink, plastic, soap container. I had three, nicely wrapped tampons and many other, untold wonders, in that mysterious, cerulean receptacle.

I understand now that I was OCD but many thought I was just plain weird.

Because of the OCD I was tattered but never dirty.

I used deodorant unlike many of my friends. They would get pretty ripe at times and in those huggy kissy days I often wrestled with my deep aversion to getting hugged and touched by smelly BO drenched arm pits and the dirty hands that always seemed to accompany them.

I am certain this cleanliness mania was why I only got the crabs once, and that was pretty unusual in those days.

Every day I found a way to take a hot shower or a cold soapy, sploosh from a garden hose. My friends thought my grooming habits were kinda nutty. Turns out I was nuts. Ah Well.

As far as I was concerned, the guys could stew in their own effluvium if that was their choice. But they were never going to get those smells between my sheets or into my sleeping bag. No way, no how.

I found love by sniffing it out. Literally. If I noticed some guy giving me the hairy eyeball my eyes would immediately drop to his hands whilst I was getting a snoot full of the rest of him.

If I detected a guy that was living the “natural life” I would avoid him like the plague. I missed a lot of “free love” opportunities, but if “Mr. Natural,” approached I would think,“In your dreams buddy, in your fucking’ dreams!”

If they didn’t pass the sniff test, they didn’t have a chance with this little ol’ piece of red pussy.

To be clear. In this area, I have very high standards, and I mean nosebleed standards.

If a guy wanted to get a taste, of that red treasure he wouldn’t get anywhere without a bar of soap and some toothpaste in his recent past.

I hope this little treatise, will end your imaginings on the matter of dirty hippies.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way I want to crack open the big myth of hippiedom, free love.

Sorry folks, it really was a fable that was spun by those who were never there in the axis of it all.

Love is not free in what ever generation you live in. It is always fraught with difficulties and emotions. Doing it a lot does not make it free.

I tore my hair out over some of my love affairs. There was one fella that made me so crazy I almost ended up with a tonsure.

Oh the humanity!

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