There once was a lass who loved fleeces
So much that she went all to pieces
She gave all her money
To bring home this honey
And now she's far richer than Croesus
Phillip was so relieved that I did not bring home a sheep last weekend, I haven't had the heart to tell him about this. Difficult though it may be to believe, he hasn't noticed it yet (He distracts easily). If my posts come to an abrupt halt, you'll know he didn't take it well.
My decision to purchase a whole raw fleece is the absolute pinnacle of overconfidence. While I know academically what I'm supposed to do to turn this into yarn, I have no idea how the execution will really play out. I am absolutely in love with everything about this fiber, and I don' think I'll ever get tired of playing with it. That said, I do worry that I'm in over my head. I have only the most rudimentary of fiber processing tools: soap, water, a dog comb. Putting this in my car at the festival felt like declaring that I intend to eat an elephant with a teaspoon: At best, it's gonna take time.
In spite of my trepidation (intrusion of rational thoughts), I managed to pull off some hunks of this, wash it, comb it, and spin it. Two words: YEAH BABY.
If loving wool is wrong, I don't wanna be right.