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[trueindianhair]

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[truegloryhair]

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[chiniece-curlygirlystory]

Girlhood + Hair

A huge part of girlhood for me was surrounded by my hair, particularly how it was styled. Being a young black girl in the Caribbean, I think it's indicative of our experience at one point we'd sit in between our mother's legs or a very close relative to have our hair braided on a Sunday afternoon before school on Monday. Styles ranged from extravagant partings in canerows, braids, and two-strand twists adorned with clips, bubbles, and ribbons to make us look presentable. This was the case for me until at some stage my hair was relaxed. Moving from detailed and creative hair designs downgrading to a simple container of chemicals making my once kinky hair filled with expression into a sleek conformative look. I can remember being 6 years old when this happened, my mother had relaxed hair it was easier for her to manage at the time and she thought why not do the same to me? I was old enough for my young scalp to take on the harsh chemicals. I still remember the pink and green box with the little girl on the packaging her hair straight with curler set curls in them at the end, I thought wow I'd look so pretty like that too. Although now I look back on it as the innocence of my virgin hair being stolen from me. After I turned 14 I decided to no longer have my hair chemically relaxed I wanted to get to know my natural hair. I couldn't remember what my hair looked like when I was robbed of an experience figuring out how to manage my hair. So I took it upon myself to go on the journey of becoming a natural again. I did the big chop and rocked my tiny afro for quite some time then my sister did my hair in afro kinky twists for the first time. It made me feel like the prettiest girl on earth and no one could tell me otherwise. She had never done that style before on anyone, I was basically her guinea pig so she could figure out how to do it on herself. I of course was more than willing to be a lab rat, they looked wonky but I didn't care I loved them because I had never seen myself like that before. I felt pretty with my hair relaxed yes, I loved getting my hair put into a fresh curler set every Sunday, but something about the kinky twists had just resonated with me more. I felt a sense of identity with all its imperfections the wonky parts, I felt different and that was better than anything in the world. Another part of your hair journey as a young black girl was when you were allowed to get your first set of box braids with colour at the ends. For some reason, the universal option chosen is more often than not purple.  I've asked my friends and they too said their first experience with coloured braids was purple. We all gravitated to purple there's something so innocent about our collective love of the colour purple in our hair as young girls juxtaposed our different tones of beautiful skin we all looked phenomenal. Even now as I'm on the cusp of being a full-blown adult entering my 20s I still find myself experimenting with my hair in different styles. This year alone I've done several styles from faux locs, butterfly locs, Marley twists, box braids with beads, French braids and lace front wigs. I always find myself back to kinky twists, they hold a special place in my heart they opened my eyes to see my true beauty in a natural state. My younger self got to experience that feeling of getting a natural hairstyle done for the first time I'll never be able to get that back again  I do envy my younger self for having that feeling of being renewed, reborn, liberated even. Hair and one’s journey with their hair is a particularly important part of girlhood specifically black girlhood that no one speaks on and I'm glad that I'm able to do so through my blog.

     I didn't go natural I started to love the hair I was born with.

           -Your favourite Curly Girly 

All photos used can be found in the linked Pinterest board :)

[goohair]

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[misterkingdom]

FIRST LINES MEME: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

I’m going to divide this between original fiction and Fanfic.

ORIGINAL FICTION:

1. It’s May in New York City which means it’s pissing rain down from the glaucoma grey skies.

2. Jacklyn “Jack” Gilmore flicked her half finished cigarette into the virgin snow at her feet, the red tip of it glowed like a falling star until it hit the ice with a dying hiss.

3. The sky was smudged grey with clouds threatening rain of biblical proportions.

4. Tommy sat in his room, drinking a beer he commandeered from Dad’s liquor cabinet—which was just a fancy way of saying that his father kept the alcohol in the higher cabinets since Tommy was a toddler and didn’t bother to move it when he got a little, a lot taller.

5. The air this high up in the mountains was thin, the wind moving through the castle sounded like the howling of ghosts.

6. Conan James Lynch III’s lips were glittering with spilled beer in the putrid, yellow light of the cheap lamp in the corner of the too small living room.

7. Toodles Galore was a six foot three, beast of a man, with rolling muscles and skin shiny, oiled to perfection. He smelled of something flirty and evilly tempting, like a forbidden fruit drowned in Vodka. His cheap wig was bone straight and white-blonde, contrasting with his midnight skin. His artificial, jean blue eyes were watching The Spaceman with something more intimate than he's felt in a long time, as the man slipped cherry Blow Pop between is full lips. He wore a red, frilly, threadbare, heart red robe with black, black laced panties underneath, holding back an impressive package.

8. The bathroom walls were flamingo pink and hasn’t had any work done since Dylan’s mother remodeled it in the mid-2000s. The floor was checked black and white, smudged with footprints. A red, fuzzy rug peeked out from under the sink. The mirror was dream hazy with the friendly fire of toothpaste as Dylan and his Dad’s toothbrushes rolled around in a dirty glass—black and red, respectively.

The bathroom had the flavor of a seedy motel that charges hourly. Dylan’s mother had always been a Vegas girl, through and through. This bathroom held the one piece of her wild spirit that hadn’t abandoned him when she up and left to live in England with a minor lord she met online nine years ago.

9. Aishwarya Mehta sat behind the office desk, watching the electric blue open sign to the family motel wink. It was sometime between the wolves and the birds, the clock had blinked off hours ago. The front office was eerie and abandoned at night, with only a tinny rendition of Creep by Radiohead interfering with her walkie-talkie keeping her company. Her older brother had snuck off hours ago, probably to sleep in one of the unoccupied rooms.

10. The Spaceman wraps his lips around the brown cock of a sweating, cold, Bud Light. The beer hasn't burned since he was thirteen. The drink slides down, silky as Ella Fitzgerald’s voice.

FANFICTION:

11. The sun rises in her irises like it does over an ocean—all sapphire blue with a sprinkling of gold cradled in them. In their depths lies a coldness and a question: How could someone so disgusting, so lowly dare to touch her? Syril doesn’t have an answer. He just breathes in the scent of jasmine like it’s the last breath of air before he is pulled under into the deep.

(From a WIP starring Dedra/Syril from Andor.)

12. He’s supposed to knock her out but her lips on his were soft as satin and she’s silver in the moonlight.

(From an Until Dawn fanfic starring Josh and Sam.)

13. Cold blew from the river Thames, dragging its icy lips across Widowmaker’s dead face—she can scarcely remember the sensation of skin on skin, but icy tears crawled down her face, the sensation reminiscent of spider legs walking down her cheeks.

(From a Windowmaker/Tracer fanfic.)

14. Dick’s hair had grown long, untamed, black waves cascading down to his pale collar bones. He wore a large army green jacket, jeans, and white sneakers. He sat against the hood of his funeral black 1990 Dodge Charger outside of a diner, smoking a cigarette. He was only lit by the red light of the neon sign bleeding across the parking lot—it’s a good thing Tim has binoculars as he lay on a roof across the street.

(From a Batman-Tim/Dick fanfic.)

15. “You are like the sun—“Namor began.

“Hard to look at?” Shuri joked, trying to drown her nervousness in humor—a familiar situation. It instead forms a rock in the pit of her stomach. It was the type of wordplay that would earn her a soft chuckle from T’Challa. T’Challa wouldn’t approve of this, he’d search the entire ocean for her. But he’s not here, he’s nowhere. He’s dead…and he took the Black Panther with him.

“Radiant.” Namor continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Come here.”

(From yet ANOTHER Black Panther Namor/Shuri political marriage fanfic. I know there are dozens, which is why I won’t be posting this.)

16. They sent in the social worker when Jason Todd told the first three cops to fuck off. She looked as if she road in on the last bus out of Las Vegas—fried, bleach blonde hair, blueberry eyeshadow, dry lipstick the color of fresh blood, and burnt gold skin with black pupils. She was trying too hard to sound sympathetic. It came out as synthetic. It hurt his ears.

(From a Dick/Jason fanfic.)

17. Elsa Bloodstone didn’t know how she would die but she knew it wouldn’t be in bed, dying easily was not her birthright. The Bloodstone was, however. In pursuit of it, she ended up in a cage with a monster who wore the face of a unassuming, handsome, slightly dopey gent. When she first laid eyes on him, she thought she could eat him for lunch. He didn’t ooze masculinity like the other men crowding the room. He also didn’t want to fight her. She should’ve known he was the most dangerous. It’s always the quiet ones. She took a shuddery breath. He hopes he makes it quick and then somehow devours her stepmother.

(From a Werewolf by Night Jack/Elsa fanfic,)

18. Steven’s body wasn’t a temple—it was a flat and too many people were living in it. Marc is the stereotypical strong silent type but Steven can tell that the little American man inside him was getting antsy. They share a body so all of Marc’s anxiety about all the crazy magic shit is getting to him. Steven had been ignoring Marc but it only seemed to make him louder, like there was a megaphone blaring in his head.

(From a Moon Knight Marc/Steven fanfic.)

19. The sun was shards cracked by the reaching limbs of trees as they rode along a faint path, in symmetry with the too clear, rushing stream that scattered their reflections. The lush green, towering trees roofing over them, painted their piece of Eden a friendly emerald. The blue of the sky was unbroken by clouds, clear as a polished mirror. The windless, mild weather, spoke of a cool summer, even though the cusps of autumn loomed nearby.

Their Imperial Warmblood was a large animal, bigger than any horse Dorian has ever seen. It was cloud white and named Snowball by Sera. The elf had apparently named every animal they’ve gotten in all of Skyhold. It’s a feat, considering how many creatures Dorian runs to in any given day.

Snowball was followed by Shadow, a large, oil slick black Ferelden horse that Cullen grew attached to. It was trailing at a slower pace, making soft noises that could barely be heard over the light clatter of hooves. Their bags were stacked on the horse like pebbles on a riverbed.

Cullen’s body was a hard, hot weight against him, even through Cullen’s armor and Dorian’s leather. Dorian somewhat felt bad for Snowball, the way they were two bulky men weighing the mount down, but the horse didn’t look like it was a burden.

The commander dragged his finger up Dorian’s side until it reached the underside of his arm. Dorian suppressed a squirm—he was particularly ticklish right under his armpit. He found that out from Iron Bull—while Cullen moved his gloved finger down the curve of Dorian’s bicep. The touch was ghosted, hinting that the commander could be caressing him with the rough pads of his scarred fingers or holding him with his slightly out of true fingers.

Cullen moved his hand until it was splayed on Dorian’s lower belly. Dorian inhaled against the heat pooling in him at a mere placement of the commander’s hands, even through the Dorian’s heavy outfit, and Cullen’s gloves.

Dorian held onto the reins, lest the animal gets startled and paralyzes them both.

“I get the feeling you want something, commander.”

“Is that so?” Cullen’s stubble-itchy jaw scrubbed against Dorian’s freshly shaved one. Both of his hands rested against Dorian’s for a moment before he moved them to Dorian’s navel. Dorian failed to suppress the shudder and the ache where Cullen could be right now if they were to stop in the middle of nowhere.

Cullen inched back before planting one wet kiss in the vortex of Dorian’s neck. The commander held his lips there while sticking his hand into the material of Dorian’s harness and trailing the hot hand until he felt his peck. Cullen’s leather covered thumb caught on the sensitive bud of his nipples. Dorian bit back a gasp as Cullen slid his hand even further down until just the tips of his fingers brushed Dorian’s cock. Dorian failed to swallow his groan. He took one of his hands off the reins and pressed Cullen’s hands further down. The commander got one good stroke in before Dorian begrudgingly took Cullen’s hand out of the outfit. He stopped himself from grounding down on the saddle for relief.

“We need to stop, love.” Dorian said. “This is technically bestiality. We need to get off this horse.”

“Get off this horse? I know you’re a hedonist but this is a little much, don’t you think?”

“Oh, you know what I meant.” Dorian said as he pulled the reins. The horse stopped with a soft noise. Shadow got the hint and stop just short of the other mount. Dorian got off the beast slowly and stretched. His thighs hurt from being in that position but Cullen, ever limber, came down with grace.

(A piece of Dragon Age: Inquisition Cullen/Dorian fanfic which I will never post ;__;)

20. “The Supreme Leader respects you like I would a very clever attack dog.” General Hux said. “We could never lose you. I could never lose you.”

Kylo Ren stared up at the general from the hospital bed. His wrist itches and burns but the pain feels faraway. The lights smear into diamonds and Hux is just a black figure far above him.

Kylo Ren’s body feels made out of stone. He feels like an empty vessel for the First Order to pour and pour and pour their hate toward the Resistance, the Republic, the Jedi—everything, until lashed out violently to suit their needs. Now more than ever, he feels like a sick dog on a leash. He believes in the cause but the cause believing in him was the most important thing.

Leia and Han Solo made the decision to send him to Luke Skywalker. He joined the Knights of Ren because of the wise Supreme Leader. He was clay—something to be molded by hard hands. He was mere pieces before he joined the First Order. He was sewn together by their hopes and dreams—a Frankenstein’s monster. The only thing he can take credit for is his mistakes.

If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred.

He now sees that the only substantial decision he’d made in years was to bash his wrist against the bathroom mirror.

Hux pushed one of the three medical droids out of the way. The bot whirled as it fluttered. Hux then took his handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed the stiff, dry material under Kylo Ren’s eyes—were there tears? Hux’s look of cold formality flickers into one of pity.

“So tell me, Ren, were you hoping to die? Is it because you were bested by a scavenger?”

Kylo Ren took a staccato breath. Rey. Rey.

“Well, you don’t get to die.” Hux said. He stuck the towel back into his pocket. He gently cupped the side of Kylo Ren’s face. His leather glove was cold and dry—a barrier between their faux intimacy. He can’t remember the last time he felt skin on his. “You are a tool and I won’t let you die until you’ve served your purpose.”

He wasn’t trying to die but he didn’t mind that death could’ve been a side effect.

Hux traced his thumb along Kylo Ren’s bottom lip.

“Our live are not our own, Ren. We fight and die so something greater can grow in our place. You will do well to remember that.” Hux’s slipped his thumb passed Kylo Ren’s teeth and rested on the tip of his tongue, the fresh leather was chaffing. He pressed down until spit pooled in Kylo Ren’s mouth. The general removed his digit from Kylo Ren’s mouth, leaving a trail of spit ending on his chin. “Are you listening to me?”

Kylo Ren reached beyond the general’s face and crushed one of the medical droid, barely feeling the pinch of electricity or hear the whirring come to a halt. The pieces fall like dirty snow, like fiery meteors, like stars as they sprinkle on him.

Hux smirked.

“Good.”

(From a Star Wars fanfic—Hux/Kylo Ren.) **

The pattern I notice from my original fiction is that it’s all pretty grim and dirty, especially the way I describe scenery to set the mood. I hope I’m not too one note.

The pattern I learned from my from my fan fiction is that it’s a lot of hero/villain and opposites attracting but doesn’t that make it more fun?

I don’t have any writer friends to tag so I tag all of you reading this! If you do it, tag me in it so I can read your writing! Thanks.

[kizzone12]

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[trueindianhair]

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[truegloryhair]

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[acbvirgin]

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[joyner111]

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[style-your-image]

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[maryperry27]

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[kizzone12]

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[truegloryhair]

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