Shampoo Ginger
Shampoo ginger really does feel and smell like shampoo. You just grip that red cone and out oozes this clean, fresh, soapy liquid—straight from the plant. No joke. This particular strain came from the 9th Ward, from my friend Jay, an incredible chef and grower who started his patch right between sidewalk and the street, in what some folks call the “hell strip.” Now I don’t know where that name came from, or why the devil beats his wife when it rains while the sun’s out, but I do know what Heaven is: standing in a downpour, middle of June, rubbing that goo into your scalp. Or collecting it, bottling it, freezing it like some folks do. Either way—pure joy.
The Latin sounds like something staight out Dr. Seuss: Zingiber zerumbet. Say that three times fast. Now picture a cat in a zoot suit playing a kazoo on a zipline, zooming from zero to zixty past zebras in zoos. That’s this shampoo.
A perfect plant for a place like New Orleans. Shampoo ginger loves heat and humidity. Loves our rain, too. You put it in the ground, let it settle in, and you’re golden. It dies back in winter, sure, but come spring, it pops up again like it never left. No need to baby it. It’s the kind of plant that fits right into the rhythm of this city—steady, wild, and deeply rooted.
Here in New Orleans, plants aren’t just for looks—they’re stories, memories, even little acts of resistance. Shampoo ginger is all of that. It gives something back, whether you’re rubbing it into your hair, watching pollinators buzz around it, or just telling the story of how it got to your yard. From the 9th Ward hell strip to your own front porch—it’s got a place here.
Shampoo ginger really does feel and smell like shampoo. You just grip that red cone and out oozes this clean, fresh, soapy liquid—straight from the plant. No joke. This particular strain came from the 9th Ward, from my friend Jay, an incredible chef and grower who started his patch right between sidewalk and the street, in what some folks call the “hell strip.” Now I don’t know where that name came from, or why the devil beats his wife when it rains while the sun’s out, but I do know what Heaven is: standing in a downpour, middle of June, rubbing that goo into your scalp. Or collecting it, bottling it, freezing it like some folks do. Either way—pure joy.
The Latin sounds like something staight out Dr. Seuss: Zingiber zerumbet. Say that three times fast. Now picture a cat in a zoot suit playing a kazoo on a zipline, zooming from zero to zixty past zebras in zoos. That’s this shampoo.
A perfect plant for a place like New Orleans. Shampoo ginger loves heat and humidity. Loves our rain, too. You put it in the ground, let it settle in, and you’re golden. It dies back in winter, sure, but come spring, it pops up again like it never left. No need to baby it. It’s the kind of plant that fits right into the rhythm of this city—steady, wild, and deeply rooted.
Here in New Orleans, plants aren’t just for looks—they’re stories, memories, even little acts of resistance. Shampoo ginger is all of that. It gives something back, whether you’re rubbing it into your hair, watching pollinators buzz around it, or just telling the story of how it got to your yard. From the 9th Ward hell strip to your own front porch—it’s got a place here.
Shampoo ginger really does feel and smell like shampoo. You just grip that red cone and out oozes this clean, fresh, soapy liquid—straight from the plant. No joke. This particular strain came from the 9th Ward, from my friend Jay, an incredible chef and grower who started his patch right between sidewalk and the street, in what some folks call the “hell strip.” Now I don’t know where that name came from, or why the devil beats his wife when it rains while the sun’s out, but I do know what Heaven is: standing in a downpour, middle of June, rubbing that goo into your scalp. Or collecting it, bottling it, freezing it like some folks do. Either way—pure joy.
The Latin sounds like something staight out Dr. Seuss: Zingiber zerumbet. Say that three times fast. Now picture a cat in a zoot suit playing a kazoo on a zipline, zooming from zero to zixty past zebras in zoos. That’s this shampoo.
A perfect plant for a place like New Orleans. Shampoo ginger loves heat and humidity. Loves our rain, too. You put it in the ground, let it settle in, and you’re golden. It dies back in winter, sure, but come spring, it pops up again like it never left. No need to baby it. It’s the kind of plant that fits right into the rhythm of this city—steady, wild, and deeply rooted.
Here in New Orleans, plants aren’t just for looks—they’re stories, memories, even little acts of resistance. Shampoo ginger is all of that. It gives something back, whether you’re rubbing it into your hair, watching pollinators buzz around it, or just telling the story of how it got to your yard. From the 9th Ward hell strip to your own front porch—it’s got a place here.