synthetic fiber

Welcome to another edition of “Shit Cake Does While Cleaning!”

On today’s show, Cakeisnotpie will burn her hand, overheat her vaccuum cleaner, watch it send sparks showering across the living room, and ruin her brand new rug while she attempts to suck white cat hair off her blue couch!

On the next episode … how to cover burnt carpet smell so your husband doesn’t find out!

Ruhák / Clothes

ruhák - clothes
mosni - to wash
viselni - to wear
felvenni - to put on
választani - to choose
vásárolni - to buy
kicserélni - to change
fizetni - to pay
eladó(nő) - shop assistant (nő=woman)
kasszás - cashier
bal - left
jobb - right

- baggy
szűk - tight
méret - size
kicsi - small
közepes - medium
nagy - large
szín - colour
fazon - style (as in the shape of a dress)
stílus - style (as in gothic, elegant, etc)

fabric - szövet
vászon - linen
len - lein, sheer
selyem - silk
csipke - lace
pamut - cotton
műszál - synthetic fibers
kötött pulóver - knitted jumper
bőr - leather

ruha - dress
póló - t-shirt
ing - shirt
blúz - blouse
top - top
ujjatlan, atléta - sleeveless
hosszú ujjú - longsleeve
pulóver - pull-over, sweater
kardigán - cardigan
garbó - turtleneck
kabát - coat
dzseki - jacket
vízhatlan kabát - impermeable coat
öltöny - suit

nadrág - pants
farmer - jeans
rövidnadrág - shorts
szoknya - skirt
ceruzaszoknya - pencil skirt
maxiszoknya - maxi skirt
cicanadrág - leggings (directly translated to catpants)
háromnegyedes nadrág - culottes
halásznadrág - overalls
melegítő nadrág - sweatpants

fehérnemű - underwear
bugyi - panties
tanga - thong
boxer - boxers
melltartó - bra
harisnya - stockings
neccharisnya - fishnet stockings
zokni - sock

cipő - shoes
magassarkú - high-heels
edzőcipő - trainers
szandál - sandals
vietnámi papucs - flip-flop
papucs - slippers
topánka - ballerina shoes
lapos talpú - flat shoes
bakancs, csizma - boots
gumicsizma - rubber boots

Originally posted by giveme-yourattention

anonymous asked:

I know ur on hiatus but how would you recommend untangling a long wig? Or any wig

if its really bad I know there are ways of using fabric softener to help get tangles out (there are plenty of tutorials out there, just google it) 

for brushing a few tangles out of a long wig: make sure you’re using a wig brush! they have metal instead of plastic because your wig is also made from plastic synthetic fibers. So if you brush it with a plastic brush it will cause friction between the plastics and pull the fibers, damaging the wig and making it look frizzy. 

once you have your brush, start at the bottom of the wig and gently brush through the tangles making your way up the wig.  If you try to start at the cap and go all the way down you’ll just damage your wig. BE VERY GENTLE! 

good luck! 

(also to keep it from getting tangled while storing or traveling with it, do a lose braid )

Switch With Me

Gency week, day 5 - Role Swap!

Previous and next of the week!

I had a bit of a trouble with this prompt, but then I thought Body Swap au! Because who doesn’t love a body swap au. (And don’t lie to yourself, you know you love it!)

And I forgot to mention, but this was partly inspired by Zee’s lovely art and the discussions in the gency discord server! :)

Appropiate tags: Body Swap, light fluff, feeling stuff. (You know. Stuff)

Please enjoy!

Keep reading

Wig Stuff

Sometimes (many times) u have to pluck ur parting. Use tweezers.. Using ur hands heightens the chance of ripping the lace

Concealer on ur parting for blending purposes

Razor combs are ur friend for trimming down bulk and “wiggy looks” (unless thats what ur going for). Also, if u want no leave out, u can make baby hair with razor combs with ease

Fabric dye/tint works wonders for dark skinned people who want to blend the lace color with their skin (or scalp if u have leaveout)

Sew an elastic band from ear to ear inside a full lace/lace front to keep the hairline from lifting


If u want to straighten or curl a synthetic unit, wet it first. The water creates a protective barrier which keeps the fibers from melting

Take care of the hair underneath and try to get a satin cap instead of a nylon one. Nylon is drying (u can make it work with nylon tho.. Just moisturize often)

I’ve shared this picture before, but I feel like it’s time again.  So, time to talk all about this again.

This is what a variety of fibers look like underneath a microscope.  And this is why each of the different kinds of fiber behave in the ways that they do.  And it’s incredibly important for anyone in any aspect of the fiber arts to understand it. 

The microscopic structure of the individual fibers never goes away (save for superwash), regardless of the finished format of the fiber.  Think of it this way.  A seamstress needs to know the best usage and properties of any given fabric they’re working with.  Fabric is made of fiber, just like what we’re working with.  Understanding what each fiber can and can’t do helps tremendously to increase the quality of what we all do.

You can see that all of the animal fibers look like scales stacked on top of each other.  Those scales are the trick to how animal fibers act like they do.  When not felted, they link up and un-link randomly, creating both breathablity and an insulating layer of air.  You can also see that there’s a huge difference in wool types.  Yes, not all wool is created alike.  Coarse wool, usually saved for rugs, is much thicker, and therefore much more durable.  A pencil is much easier to break than a tree branch, right?  Fine wool is the pencil. 

In felting, those scales link up into a much more permanent fashion.  This is again, entirely due to the microscopic structure of the fiber.  It’s why, with most techniques, felting is only done with animal fiber. 

Plant fibers, as you can see, have a little bit of roughness to their surface, but lack the scales.  Again, this is the secret to how they behave.  That roughness creates breathing in the fabric.  However, since they lack the scales, it can’t trap in air for an insulating layer like animal fibers.

And the last, polyester.  While yes, there is some variety to synthetic fibers, I want to stress that all synthetic fibers are extruded from a tube.  So, the majority of them look pretty darn similar to the one above.  As it’s a completely smooth surface, it just sits smack up against the next fiber.  It doesn’t create breathable fiber or allow in an insulating layer of air.

And it gets even more complicated.  Each individual fiber type, down to the specific breed or species of plant, behaves a little bit differently.  Some wools suck up dye like a man dying of thirst in a desert.  Some just sip it.  Some fibers have a natural luster.  Some lack that shine.  And it’s all because of the natural, inherent properties of the fiber.

Blending fibers doesn’t change the fundamental characteristics of the fiber types.  It just means you have a blend where part of it acts one way and part of it acts another way.  I know spinners who’ve been working with fiber for thirty years who didn’t get that point.  And yes, I taught them. 

All of these characteristics need to be taken into consideration whenever you’re choosing a fiber type to work with, regardless of whether you’re weaving, knitting, crocheting, spinning, or felting.  Because they really, really matter.

"Christmas Tube Socks" by Sufjan Stevens

Christmas was a time of terrible expectation, during which, for one week prior to the fateful day, our family was confined to the claustrophobia of our winterized home, forced to “spend time together”. For a family who mixed like vinegar and baking soda, this was a cosmic blooper. My siblings and I were out of school for two weeks, but, unlike summer vacation, (with the various distractions of summer camp and summer jobs), during Christmas break, we were snowed in on all sides, cooped up in small, poorly insulated rooms, and forced, by our father, into the manual labor of household chores: hauling wood, sweeping the stairs, picking fleas from our dog Sarah. This was his version of Family Time.

My father survived the holidays through work, taking on multiple jobs, double shifts, or implementing odd, complicated, time-consuming chores around the house, such as shoveling two-lane walkways in the snow in the yard, and an escape route to the creek out back, in case of an emergency. He joined civic clubs, became a volunteer fireman, attended multiple self-help groups, anything to keep his mind away from the notion that his family was, in fact, a messy, fussy, dysfunctional menagerie of misfits. As for his children, confined inside, breathing recycled air – we fought all day. My sisters, having more prep time in the bathroom in the mornings, hissed and yelled over hair gels and curing irons. “Did you eat my lipstick?” “Did you break my nail file?” My older brother and I would find ourselves writhing, biting, and wrestling under the Christmas tree, overturning bookcases, TV stands and sofa chairs. My father would jump in, separate us, give us a slap on the face and ask: “What are you fighting about?” We could never remember.

Each year, our mother carried the impossible burden of making Christmas “spectacular”, and this often threw her into a psychological state of mind one could describe, in medical terms, as temporary insanity. She spent money she didn’t have, lots of money, imaginary money, money based on speculation, future jobs, hopes and dreams, the kind of money promised by lottery tickets and Amway. Her motives, perhaps, were good: who could blame a mother’s desire to make Christmas perfect for an otherwise imperfect family. But the results, over time, were incriminating. Credit cards engorged and then ignored, bounced checks, money borrowed from distant relatives, great grandfathers, next-door neighbors, train sets and suit coats and wool vests from J. C. Penney put on lay-away, sometimes for years. She brought home elaborate Christmas wreaths, scented candle sets, music boxes, decorative Christmas plates with Elvis, Gene Kelly, and Winona Ryder, designer snow suits, a family toboggan, a Saint Bernard, a Jeep Cherokee. Each item brought home, whether big or small, ignited, between our parents, complicated, colossal disputes as epic as the battles of the Odyssey or the Iliad, Often resulting in egg salad smeared all over the bay window or pots and pans thrown about the kitchen with the pageantry of a Texas high school marching band. In the most heated of arguments, our mother would run to the tree, grab an inconsequential gift (breath mints, a paper kite, a gift certificate), and throw it in the wood stove – an impulsive, spiteful, and (most likely) cathartic gesture. She would stand over the flames like a high priest making a sacrifice, counting down backwards, from ten to one, breathing deeply between each number, ruminating on the incineration of an unopened present. It must have been metaphor for something deeper. But what?

And this is where I began to really hate Christmas. One year, when it snowed 72 inches in two days, and my sister started her period, and my mother brought home sixteen pounds of discount jumbo shrimp from Wal-Mart, and my father reminded her that he was allergic to shellfish and his face would swell up, and our dog chewed up the Encyclopedia Britannica, and our cousin called and said that Aunt Josie had died in her sleep and my mother started to cry and declared Christmas was cancelled. Then she stomped over to the tree, grabbed the first gift she could find and threw it in the wood stove with a quick flick of her wrist, like swatting a fly.

“There, it’s done,” she said. “I feel much better.” But the gift she chose happened to be a six-pack of ordinary tube socks, wrapped in plastic. Which I had bought as a peace offering for my brother. (The week before, I’d cut the toes to all of his socks – using my mother’s good sewing scissors – after he’d told all my friends at school that I still sucked my thumb and slept with a Care Bear.)

“I paid good money for those!” I told her.

“Oh dear,” my mother said, stepping back from the stove. But it was too late. They were cheap, acrylic, dollar-store tube socks, manufactured in China, spun out of pliable man-made materials, synthetic fibers, which, when burned, began to melt, ooze, liquefy, and bubble over, triggered, perhaps, by some extraordinary and complicated chemical reaction. The smell was harrowing – a dense, bold, toxic aroma, the Smell of Death (as we later called it) which, when metabolized in the gloomy atmosphere of our home, spread from room to room in a noxious smoky haze, lilting under doorways and air vents with the speed and agility of hot lava. We were being suffocated in our own house. My mother ran out the front door; I found the nearest window.

“What is that smell?” My sister screamed from her bedroom. “The Smell of Death!”

It forced everyone else in the house to immediately abandon his or her particular private tasks (for my sister, it was nail polish remover, for my brother, a home-made fire bomb he’d been building under his bed) and seek immediate egress outdoors. We met in the winter maze of the driveway, feet stamping, shoulders shuddering, tsk tsking each other, inhaling the icy air of a blizzard, watching our father leap around inside, leveraging windows, propping doors, fanning the smoke and fumes with a folded newspaper.

“Good going!” my sister rolled her eyes.

“Next time, buy cotton,” my mother suggested.

“Why is this my fault?” I wondered.

“Because you’re a cheap-o,” my brother said, jabbing my collarbone. I kicked snow in his face and he punched my ear and my sister screamed because she lost an earring and my mother started counting backwards from ten to one, mumbling prayers under her breath.

It took forty-five minutes for the air to clear, and even then, after we’d returned to the chilly reaches of our rooms, there was the faint smell of burnt tube socks lurking between the walls, behind doors, nestled in the window curtains and in the bath towels and in the hair on our heads. It stuck around for weeks, months, years; perhaps it never left us. Even today, whether I’m at home in Brooklyn or in some distant East Asian country, Christmas still leaves a plastic taste in my mouth, a toxic residue that reminds me of tube socks.

Is it any wonder then, that after years of enduring the Stevens Family Christmas Crisis, I grew to despise the Holidays with the kind of deep antipathy one usually reserves for things like racism and terrorism and corporate fraud? The sight of Santa Claus at shopping malls, the scent of candy canes, the insipid singing of carols – these things roused in me a silent, sardonic, patronizing judgment against all of Western Civilization. At some point, perhaps my second year in college, Philosophy 101, I decided that Christmas was a social construct, along with dating, fast food, and the Super Bowl. I made a point of not coming home for the Holidays. I would have Christmas on my own, entrenched in my reading: Rumi poems, Descartes, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, Ayn Rand. My first Christmas alone was in a dorm room. My second Christmas alone was at a Holiday Inn. My third Christmas alone was spent in a dirty little apartment in Bloomfield, New Jersey, a turkey pot pie in the microwave, Jeopardy re-runs on TV, Simon and Garfunkel on the stereo. I am a Rock. I am an Island.

My sister called to say, “Why aren’t you coming home anymore?”

Because, I told her, our mother is a Christmas Pirate and our father puts duct tape on his slippers, and the Siamese cat throwing up pine needles all over Grandma’s gingerbread house is not my idea of a family tradition. Because if I have to carry another load of wood up those stairs I will file a child labor lawsuit. Because Christmas is for sentimental psychopaths and if we continue celebrating it we will all spend our golden years in a mental hospital eating canned peas with a spork.

My sister told me I was irrational and deluded, but very imaginative and perhaps I should write a novel. That was a good idea, I told her. So I tried. And failed. And tried and failed. “Revenge of the Christmas Pirate,” by Sufjan Stevens. “That Was the Worst Christmas Ever,” by Sufjan Stevens. I read some of it out loud to my sister, over the phone.
“I like the part about the dead squirrel wrapped in tissue paper that Dad gave as a stocking stuffer,” she said. “But you know that never actually happened.”
“Yes it did,” I insisted. “Everything’s one-hundred percent accurate.”
“You need therapy,” my sister said. “Or a girlfriend.”

But what I really needed was time – the slow, immeasurable convalescence that comes with getting older, wiser, more mature, and to withstand the intellectual conditioning of college and graduate, the automation of office jobs, numerous cubicles, desk-top publishing, the morning commute, failed romantic relationships, a nervous breakdown, a death in the family, a root canal, unemployment, a recurring cold sore, weekends slouched over the classifieds, wondering how I would pay off my credit card debt. Over time, in the midst of everyday life, I completely forgot all about Christmas and how I hated it.

And this is how I came to love Christmas. Through the regular household task of making pancakes. It was a time in my life in which all extraordinary privileges had been rigorously swept away, leaving behind nothing more than the naked underlay of loneliness. I was unemployed, unshaven, living in a closet in a friend’s apartment in Brooklyn, delinquent on my student loans, eating day-old potato bread, Ramen noodles, and on this particularly apathetic morning in dearly December, I was ruminating on the dietary constituents of Aunt Jemima pancakes – the cheapest of morning breakfasts (you just add water!). I had accidentally left a spatula on the stove with the burner on high, and, within seconds, the whole thing went up in flames with a dripping, oozing, pungent, chemical eruption like a bad high school science project. I hustled to the rescue, dousing the flames with a nearby glass of milk, suffocating what was left of the spatula with a dirty dishrag (oh the trials of bachelorhood). But the residual smell (a plastic, toxic, peppery aftertaste) was irrefutable and all too familiar – the smell of burnt tube socks. And, for some odd reason, this singular smell sent me into a tragic-comic-sentimental shock that was simultaneously mundane and supernatural. I was having an epiphany.

I did not jump up in with ecstatic salutations, shout “Eureka!” or levitate like a phantom ghost. But I was overcome with what I can only describe as That Creepy Christmas Feeling. This pertains to that prolonged, numbing, out-of-body experience you often encounter after weeks consuming egg nog, mild chocolate candies, fruit salad, cranberry sauce, entertaining family and friends, attending Christmas mass, trailblazing superstores for discount appliances, regurgitating small talk to second cousins, deconstructing the rhyme schemes on holiday greeting cards, cutting out coupons, watching animated Christmas cartoons on TV, having an allergic reaction to pine cones, breaking out in hives, and spending New Years Day in the emergency room with everyone too hung over to visit you. The muddy plastic malodor from a melted spatula (prompting that consequential memory of tube socks) induced all of this at once – like a drug overdose. They say that smells persuade memory more vividly than pictures or sound, that our olfactory system carries with it a catalog of sensory data that can, when stimulated, call to mind entire memories, histories, events, all kinds of valuable information once thought forgotten. What came over me was not just the inconsequential stench of footwear thrown in the fire, but a complete recollection of important events in my life, the good and the bad, the blessings and misfortunes, and inventory of calamities and a register of lucky breaks, fist fights, bear hugs, overturned Advent candles, digital wrist watches, chimney fires, ruby earrings, blue jeans, tennis shoes, mistletoe, my first kiss. And with all these things I came to comprehend the formation of genealogies, family histories, a genetic superstructure that could be used describe – in microcosmic terms – the order of the universe.

And at the very center of the universe I saw the Christ Child, an infant baby, helplessly crying, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in the manger, trembling and suckling and cooing and burping and crying and laughing and giggling and spitting up breast milk all over the place. This was the mysterious incarnation of God, who came to Planet Earth not as a Divine Warrior or a Supernatural Sorcerer or an Army of Alien Androids, but as a helpless newborn baby, probably not much bigger than a six pack of acrylic tube socks. Or maybe a twelve pack.


An Overview of Bobbin Lace

Bobbin lace is a lace textile made by braiding and twisting lengths of thread, which are wound on bobbins to manage them. As the work progresses, the weaving is held in place with pins set in a lace pillow, the placement of the pins usually determined by a pattern or pricking pinned on the pillow.

Bobbin lace is also known as pillow lace, because it was worked on a pillow, and bone lace, because early bobbins were made of bone or ivory.

Bobbin lace is one of the two major categories of handmade laces, the other being needlelace, derived from earlier cutwork and reticella.

Ok, I’ll admit it… I geek out over the history of textiles.  In a lot of ways, it’s the history of how women not only dressed, but made their livings within a society that gave them very little options.  And yep, bobbin lace was one of those ways.

Bobbin lace evolved from passementerie or braid-making in 16th-century Italy. Genoa was famous for its braids, hence it is not surprising to find bobbin lace developed in the city. It traveled along with the Spanish troops through Europe. Coarse passements of gold and silver-wrapped threads or colored silks gradually became finer, and later bleached linen yarn was used to make both braids and edgings.

When hand lace-making was a major industry it was common for girls to start going to a lace-making school at about 5 years old and focus completely on lace until graduating at about 16 years old after making a “senior project” of sorts that included about 1000 bobbins. Don’t feel bad if it takes an afternoon or two to catch on.

The making of bobbin lace was easier to learn than the elaborate cutwork of the 16th century, and the tools and materials for making linen bobbin lace were inexpensive. There was a ready market for bobbin lace of all qualities, and women throughout Europe soon took up the craft which earned a better income than spinning, sewing,weaving or other home-based textile arts. Bobbin lace-making was established in charity schools, almshouses, and convents.

In the 17th century, the textile centers of Flanders and Normandy eclipsed Italy as the premiere sources for fine bobbin lace, but until the coming of mechanization hand-lacemaking continued to be practiced throughout Europe, suffering only in those periods of simplicity when lace itself fell out of fashion.

Bobbin lace may be made with coarse or fine threads. Traditionally it was made with linen, silk, wool, or, later, cotton threads, or with precious metals. Today it is made with a variety of natural and synthetic fibers and with wire and other filaments.

Elements of bobbin lace may include toile or toilé (clothwork), réseau (the net-like ground of continuous lace), fillings of part laces, tapes, gimp, picots, tallies, ribs and rolls. Not all styles of bobbin lace include all these elements.

anonymous asked:

One of the accounts I've recently started following on Instagram has been posting a lot about "Fake Tayuu" and how much they hate them. Most of it is written in Japanese, so I can't read it, but the posts are always accomplanied by pictures of Tayuu Aoi and her mother. I've also heard that some people don't believe Aoi to be a real Tayuu for some reason. Could you explain why and why she is getting hate?

This is going to be a long answer, and I’m going to try to be as impartial as I can as this is still a highly debated subject.

First of all, I do not wish to give any attention to the person who’s having a tantrum on Instagram. They’re not very respected in the community and they tend to have rants like these often, so I usually ignore them as they are not worth my time.

Secondly, I need to go over the extreme basics of tayū, as what’s being debated is ultimately an issue of semantics. So, we all know that tayū were the highest class of “courtesan” from the Edo Period. They wore incredibly gaudy clothing with ornate hairstyles and were available only to the elites. No one is denying this. Yes, they also had “sexy times” with their “customers” but it was (usually) not the main component of their job. They were supposed to function as a woman who could be the complete opposite of a wife; that is, be skilled in various arts and be able to hold a conversation/attention well.

The tayū themselves were already a dying breed of entertainer by the 18th century as their exclusivity and faded fashions could not even come close to matching the extremely popular geisha. So, from the mid 1750s tayū had basically ceased to exist everywhere except for Shimabara in Kyoto. Over the centuries their numbers have gone down as their skills and knowledge were seen as archaic to modern society even back then. What really marked the literal end for the tayū was the outlawing of prostitution in 1958. Since tayū were considered courtesans and technically the sexy stuff was part of their trade (although, not the main focus), they were forbidden from actually “being” tayū anymore. What’s more, there’s only one “registered” ochaya in Shimabara anymore, the 300 year old Wachigaya.

For the last few (and by “few” I mean “5ish”) decades all of the tayū have come from the Wachigaya since the Wachigaya was the only building around in Shimabara with a history of hosting tayū. Even as recent as the 1980s the tayū of Shimabara participated in the all-kagai dance performance that takes place in June. Today that’s called the Miyako No Nigiwai and it celebrates the dance styles of the gokagai (five flower towns). Previously this was known as the rokkagai (six flower towns) as Shimabara still operated a kenban and the tayū were well practiced artists. 

As you can guess by now, Shimabara has since lost its status as a kagai, no longer has a kenban, and thus no longer has any type of registration. The only thing that’s kept the Wachigaya going is that it’s incredibly old and still somewhat functions as an ochaya, albeit very exclusive. 

The biggest issue here that isn’t being addressed by anyone right now is what exactly constitutes a tayū and what doesn’t and, most importantly, who gets to be a tayū and who doesn’t. According to said Instagram drama queen, only women affiliated with the Wachigaya can be tayū. However (and, of course, there’s always an “however” in there somewhere), what happens when the Wachigaya says “no”? You’d figure that the last place where tayū can supposedly exist would want to promote their lineage and keep it going, right? Well, this is where the issue of who’s a “real” tayū and who isn’t comes into play, and, of course, it’s full of drama.

Tsukasa Tayū began her career in Kyoto by becoming a maiko in Gion Kobu. She then left to go to Shimabara to become a tayū at the Wachigaya. For decades she worked at the Wachigaya and even had her biological daughter learn the traditional arts and stand in as her kamuro (attendant) during parades. This was all fine and well until a few years ago when Tsukasa wanted her daughter to debut as a tayū too. You’d figure with her actual experience and pedigree that she’d a perfect candidate to become a tayū. Well, the Wachigaya said “no” and, being determined to carry on, Tsukasa split with the Wachigaya to allow her daughter to debut as a tayū. Her daughter is now Aoi Tayū.

At the same time Takasago Tayū, who has since retired and owns her own ochaya, found a very promising girl that showed real dedication to the tayū life. Once again, the Wachigaya said “no” and, to allow her to debut, she funded her entire debut herself because of her convictions. That girl is now Kikugawa Tayū. Unlike some of the other tayū Kikugawa sometimes wears a wig as she has naturally thin hair.

As a way to show that they’re the perceived “true” authority on tayū, the Wachigaya also debuted a new girl, the now Sakuragi Tayū.

So, we now have three separate places that are supporting what they feel is tayū culture. The Instagram whiner says that Tsukasa, Aoi, and Kikugawa aren’t “real” tayū because they are not affiliated with the Wachigaya. However, she enjoys glossing over the fact that the Wachigaya has used many “stand ins” for their parades over the years due to declining numbers. That is, they have women known to them dress up as tayū and act the part of a tayū for public ceremonies. She also states that the outfits that they wear are synthetic fibers, which is ridiculous. This ignorant person feels that the outfits that Tsukasa, Aoi, and Kikugawa are “fake” because she knows nothing of real silk and ignores that the Wachigaya does use kimono that are over 100 years old (many are in disrepair if you look through various images though), whereas Tsukasa, Aoi, and Kikugawa wear newer made garments. Yes, the way that silk is made and used has changed greatly in the last century, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t “real” or of the highest quality. In fact, we’ve gotten better at silk production and the silk we use today is stronger, retains colors longer, and uses artistic techniques that could only have been considered a dream a century ago. 

And, thus, we’ve come around full circle. The question at the center of this being, “Who decides who gets to be a tayū when there is no longer any institution who says what is and isn’t and who can and cannot?” The tayū have long since been resigned to a ceremonial role, no one can deny that. But, if the Wachigaya truly wants the tayū to survive, then why would they deny promising candidates? It took a vast amount of money and connections to launch new tayū who are practicing the tayū arts from the same teachers, so why should they not be called tayū too? I personally do not wish to join into this useless debate that benefits no one, but I believe that an artist is an artist and if they meet the requirements of that trade then they deserve to be called such.

lucy-fur  asked:

There ae SO many different types of makeup brushes. What exactly are they all for? Which ones do I actually need?

You really don’t need too many brushes unless you’re a makeup artist or just hate washing brushes. Many brushes serve more than one purpose, especially face brushes. Brushes used for blush can also be used for bronzer, highlighter, applying powder. Eye brushes can be used to apply concealer, cheek highlight. nose contour/highlight. So I wouldn’t worry so much about which specific brushes to get, but find ones you think you can use in more than one way.

Typically the must haves are…

  • Angled Brush. Can be used to fill in brows, apply eyeliner, use with concealer to clean up brows or lipstick, used for a cut crease, nose contour with cream products, to spot conceal and apply shadow on the lower lash line or upper lash line.
  • Fine Tip Liner Brush. Can be used for eyeliner, spot concealing, can even be used with liquid/cream brow products!
  • Lay Down/Flat Shader Brush. Can be used to apply shadow all over the lid, to apply shadow on the brow bone, use the tip to smudge out eyeshadow on the lower or upper lash line. Best when trying to smudge or apply shadow on a large area.
  • Crease Brush. Best for applying a concentrated amount of color in the crease or outer v of the lid. Less fluffy than a blender brush so you’ll get more color pay off.
  • Blending Brush. Can be used to blend out eyeshadow, to apply concealer, to apply powder in a small area like under the eyes or for nose contour/highlight. 
  • Smudge Brush. Used for smudging out eyeliner or eyeshadow for messy, bedroom eyes look under the eyes or on the lash line.
  • Pencil Brush. Also used to smudge out eyeliner or eyeshadow but can also be used to pack on color in the crease.

When it comes to face brushes it’s good to know duo fiber/synthetic brushes (the black and white haired ones) work best with cream and liquid products while the natural hair brushes work best with powders. Besides that, it’s sort of a free for all! You can use face brushes for many uses. The smaller brushes are usually best for blush, bronzer, setting under the eyes, applying highlight, etc while the larger brushes are great for blending out face products.

Extra Brushes

Advanced/speciality brushes for makeup artists/extreme makeup lovers, hoarders… same thing.

Beauty Blender. This is a great tool for makeup lovers and beginners. Applies cream/liquid face products with ease for a natural, blended finish. Can be used damp to blend out foundation, concealer, cream blush, cream bronzer, liquid highlighter. Can even be used dry for powder!

Artis Brushes. Used for quick and flawless application of foundation, concealer, shadow due to it’s unique brush hairs. These are known to blend out foundation/concealer quickly yet with great effectiveness for a really smooth end result. There are a few knock offs on the market now if you cant justify the price!

Brushes like the NARS Yachiyo and 21 brush. The Yachiyo can be used for a light application of power or used to apply powder in a concentrated area with it’s tapered tip. The 21 brush can be used with highlight and bronzer/counter for precise lines.

uuuhshiny replied to your post “Welcome to another edition of “Shit Cake Does While Cleaning!””

but then again… I need a new couch…

uuuhshiny replied to your post “Welcome to another edition of “Shit Cake Does While Cleaning!””

… HOW????? ok… no don’t wanna know ;) cuz I’ll might repeat it :D

I was using the vaccuum hose with the extension to clean out under the couch cushions and didn’t realize I had the vaccuum sitting on the new rug. The plush texture of the rug caused teh roller brush to over heat which melted the synthetic fibers causing a rancid smell and the vaccuum to start smoking. I burned my hand when I touched the melted part of the rug; I thought I could just brush it back into place like a dummy. 

I put baking soda on the spots on the rug, opened the windows and ran the fan to get rid of the smell. 

Fish realized that fish never talked about this before, so let’s talk about brushes real quick!
Quality watercolor brushes are quite expensive, so fish actually uses acrylic brushes with synthetic bristles. They are resilient, hold decent amount of water, keep their sharp points for a long time, and can take a lot of abuse like scrubbing. Most importantly, they are a lot cheaper. Fish recommend acrylic brushes with synthetic fiber bristles to beginners or just watercolorists on a budget like fish. They are cheap and easy to control.
The brush you see in this video is called an angular brush. It’s fish’s favorite cut along with a wash (square shaped brush). As you can see, it doubles as a sharp round and a wash - it’s easy to cover large areas as well as making small details. It is particularly useful for painting leaves and flower petals. However, it takes a bit of practice to get used to, and requires more deliberate rotation of the brush, but once you are used to it, this brush is a great tool to have!

This skateboard is made from recycled nylon fishing nets

That’s cool, right? This is why you should care:

“We kept seeing all this trash,” says surfer David Stover, who came up with this idea with two friends. “When we researched ocean waste, we learned that there’s a constant stream of nylon fishing nets being dumped into the ocean every year, nets that are just going to sit there for generations. This stuff doesn’t break down.”

A synthetic fiber made of polymers, nylon doesn’t break down easily and accounts for about 10% of the debris in the ocean.

The trio launched a company pays fishermen in Chile to collect old nylon fishing nets, which are then recycled into skateboards and sunglasses.

And they aren’t the only company recycling nylon into new products. Learn more >>>

Photographs: Bureo


Heat distorts synthetic fibers, this brush method assures that the fibers gets to cool down and set in the shape you want them to be, NO WAVES, NO KINKS, just perfectly straight.

Remember that DIRRCT heat should only be used on #HEATRESISTANT wigs💢

#wigtips #wigstyling #syntheticwig #cosplay #cosplaytips #costume #tutorial #howto #wigs

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definition-of-user-deactivated2  asked:

since CC's hair is made of medal wouldn't the tips of her hair be spiky? so tails may have to be careful right?

No, it’s not made of metal. She’s only got a metal skeleton base, not metal on the outside. She’s got synthetic fibers for fur and elastic polymer for artificial flesh.

I wrote that out when I first introduced her:

Understanding Acrylic

Remember what I said about acrylics being really heavily industrial?  Well yeah, get ready for this one to involve a whole lot of chemicals and information on industrial processes.

Acrylics are synthetic fibers made of a polymer known as polyacrylonitrile.  For a fiber to be called acrylic in the US, it must contain at least 85% acrylonitrile monomer.  DuPont, you know that Dupont, the huge chemical company, created the first acrylic fiber back in 1941 and marketed it as Orlon.  But it didn’t catch on until the 1950′s.

I’m just straight up quoting from the wikipedia article on acrylic for the next chunk.  It’s hard and confusing to paraphrase it as it’s hard and confusing anyway.

The polymer is formed by free-radical polymerization in aqueous suspension. The fiber is produced by dissolving the polymer in a solvent such as N,N-dimethylformamide (DMF) or aqueous sodium thiocyanate, metering it through a multi-hole spinnerette and coagulating the resultant filaments in an aqueous solution of the same solvent (wet spinning) or evaporating the solvent in a stream of heated inert gas (dry spinning). Washing, stretching, drying and crimping complete the processing. Acrylic fibers are produced in a range of deniers, typically from 0.9 to 15, as cut staple or as a 500,000 to 1 million filament tow. End uses include sweaters, hats, hand-knitting yarns, socks, rugs, awnings, boat covers, and upholstery; the fiber is also used as “PAN” precursor for carbon fiber. Production of acrylic fibers is centered in the Far East, Turkey, India, Mexico, and South America, though a number of European producers still continue to operate, including Dralon and Fisipe. US producers have ended production, though acrylic tow and staple are still spun into yarns in the USA.

I’ll sum up the best that I can.  The chemical goop is put into something like a specialized colander and then pushed out.  While the article doesn’t include any information on this, I’d assume the reason that acrylics aren’t produced in the US or much in Europe is a combination of labor costs and stricter environmental laws.  I assume this because that’s why a lot of manufacturing isn’t done in these places.

And again, as wikipedia does better than me….

Acrylic is lightweight, soft, and warm, with a wool-like feel. It can also be made to mimic other fibers, such as cotton, when spun on short staple equipment. Some acrylic is extruded in colored or pigmented form; other is extruded in “ecru”, otherwise known as “natural,” “raw white,” or “undyed.” Pigmented fiber has highest light-fastness. Its fibers are very resilient compared to both other synthetics and natural fibers. Some acrylic is used in clothing as a less expensive alternative to cashmere, due to the similar feeling of the materials. Some acrylic fabrics may fuzz or pill easily, though there are low-pilling variants. Acrylic takes color well, is washable, and is generally hypoallergenic. End-uses include socks, hats, gloves, scarves, sweaters, home furnishing fabrics, and awnings. Acrylic can also be used to make fake fur and to make many different knitted clothes.

As acrylic is a synthetic fiber, the larvae of clothes moths are unable to digest it. However, acrylic fibers that are blended with wool or soiled may be eaten accidentally.

Acrylic is the “workhorse” hand-crafting fiber for crafters who knit or crochet; acrylic yarn may be perceived as “cheap” because it is typically priced lower than its natural-fiber counterparts, and because it lacks some of their properties, including softness and propensity to felt. The fiber requires heat to “relax” or set the shape of the finished garment, and it isn’t as warm when wet as alternatives like wool. Some hand-knitters also complain that the fiber “squeaks” when knitted, or that it is painful to knit with because of a lack of “give” or stretch in the yarn. On the other hand, it is machine-washable, hypo-allergenic, and extremely color-fast. This makes it useful in certain items, like garments for babies, which require constant washing. However it is much more flammable than its natural fiber counterparts, so caution should be used when making items for babies and children.

So yeah, pluses and minuses.  This whole series is about helping people realize that there’s no such thing as a perfect fiber, that it’s all about picking the right fiber for your needs at that moment.  Our needs are a perpetually changing thing, after all.  So with all that in mind, I’ll be continuing on with the synthetics tomorrow.