how to ROCK your curly (and maybe even gray) hair

Step 1: Get a good DRY cut. Preferably from someone who’s experienced cutting curly hair DRY. Without combing it out, without wetting it down first.

Step 2: THROW AWAY YOUR COMB or brush.

Step 3: HYDRATE your hair.

Step 4: Be patient.

how to rock your curls

This video is pretty good for what you need to do once you get a good cut.

For me, personally, I just use whatever shampoo I want (though I’m sure the No Poo is what I should be using) as well as Aussie MOIST Conditioner to save some money. But I ABSOLUTELY use the Devacurl Gel and will forever and always, amen.

• I never use a comb or brush. EVER.

• I apply loads of conditioner to sopping wet hair and that’s the ONLY TIME I detangle– and only via use of my fingers.

• I wet my hair nearly every single day, but I don’t always use shampoo. In fact, I only shampoo twice a week max. However, when I do get it wet, I do ALWAYS use conditioner and the Devacurl gel.

• I NEVER rinse out all the conditioner—I flip my head over in the shower so I’m bending forward and the water gently rolls down my back and onto my head. And while it’s doing that, I’ll gently scrunch my hair so that it’s not sopping wet and so that some of the conditioner does get out (otherwise it tends to build up on my scalp).

• Then, IN THE SHOWER, I apply the Devacurl- just like in the video for the most part though I don’t “smooth” it on as much as the video. I just kinda scrunch it onto my hair, which is VERY wet.

• I NEVER blow dry.

• I rarely use those clips- instead I use a head band, which I don’t take out till completely dry. DO NOT TOUCH HAIR until it’s completely dry (and even then don’t touch much).

If doing all that above, I generally always have awesome hair days! And so can you!

change

Things have changed even around here since the last time I blogged. That’s what life is about, really: change. Without change, you’re stagnate. And who wants to live life like that? Yet it happens all the time.

All the time.

Fear is an ugly creature that prevents many of us from changing.

Fear of the unknown. Fear of the known. Fear of failure. Fear of success. Fear of happiness. Fear of solitude. Fear of being even more motherfucking empty.

As if that’s even possible.

When you get to that empty point… where nothing seems to be going your way and you sincerely wonder why the fuck you’re even still alive… that’s when you need change the most. But it’s probably also when you’re most afraid.

I’ve been there, man. I know.

But that won’t help you and I know that too.

You have to find something. Some.Thing. Anything. Quit thinking about the shit you can’t change. Instead think of the stuff you can change. And do it. Change. Make the change.

It’s worth it.

You’re worth it.

Truly you are.

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Not on the Rag but Still Feeling It

Christina:

incredible!!!
i feel ashamed that the thought of this never even crossed my mind.

Originally posted on Red's Wrap:

Is there possibly a more inelegant phrase than ‘she’s on the rag?’

Maybe. I’ll search for it later.

My mother told me that when she was a teenager growing up in a small town during the Depression, she and her sister actually used rags that were washed and bleached and hung out on the clothesline to dry, each rag hand-fed through a wringer washer. Nothing came easy then.  If you were going to be on the rag, you better learn to wash them. Harsh business.

Being on the rag is not a situation for me anymore. One of the many benefits of getting older is being able to wear white pants anytime, not having to rummage through the drawer for a Tampax like I was looking for the last remaining cigarette on earth, the one that would save me from nicotine withdrawal and wanting to kill all my children…

View original 527 more words

overcoming addiction (or at least trying to)

It’s been about a month or so since being diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes. Once I got past the anger toward myself for letting my body, my system get to the point where I could get diagnosed with diabetes, I started to put that energy into … MYSELF.

The past month has been quite interesting.

It started out so. fucking. hard: Going from consuming literally whatever the hell I wanted, whenever the hell I wanted, to 1200 calories a day was.. fucking hard.

But what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, eh?

A month later and I’m down 25 pounds. Not bad.

food92614

some of the food i’ve been enjoying

 

I feel really damn good… alive… energized. (I’m even taking about 6K steps a day, hoping to get up to 10K a day.)

I feel like this is it for me.

I feel like I’ve finally come to terms and accepted that yes, I have a problem with food (much like some may have with alcohol or drugs– yes, MUCH LIKE THAT!!) and it’s up to me to change this problem.

I feel like I’ve finally accepted that it’s okay to feel a variety of ways and NOT turn to food. It’s okay. I’ll be okay without that crutch.

It’s only been a month. That’s not too horribly long.

But.

It’s long enough to consider it a giant step toward succeeding.

I simply have no other alternative.

 

the ugly is resurfacing

In a strange, strange place right now…

I’m generally a pretty happy person these days, but then there are moments when the darkness creeps in a bit and right now that darkness is starting to take over.

I don’t like it.

Not one bit.

I’m sure this has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve been waiting for my period to show up for weeks now, certain that today would be the day only for it not to be. My personality becomes extremely short-tempered during this time. I feel and act quite ugly during this time.

I don’t like it.

Not one bit.

Faithfully I take my “happy pills” that have helped me immensely the past several years. It used to be that the darkness would manifest into a monster. Inside and out. It used to be that I had absolutely no control over the monster I would become before getting my period. Because of those happy pills, I have more control. But it’s slipping lately. I feel that control slipping away a little more each and every day.

I don’t like it.

Not one bit.

 

branded

I’m the youngest of three, the baby of the family. This isn’t something that I’m just coming to terms with now at 40-something; it’s something that’s practically been branded.

BABYbrand

When I was little, Marco (3 years older) and Melinda (7 years older) would tease me all the time. That’s all I really remember about my youth with them– the endless teasing and taunting. Marco wasn’t so bad; he just didn’t want me hanging around him and his friends which was hard for this baby to comprehend because all I ever wanted to do was “boy things.” Melinda, on the other hand, oh was she ruthless. Actually it wasn’t so much teasing that she would do either. She just had these ridiculous expectations and when not met, she could be darn right brutal doling out her punishment.

It’s probably typical sibling behavior, but it doesn’t negate the fact that I very much felt like the odd one out when it came to my siblings and family.

When my parents split when I was 9, both Marco and Melinda instantly sided with our mom, leaving me, the baby, to vacillate between Mama and Papa.

Soon, it became quite clear that I was used as a fucking pawn.

Papa would ask me about Marco and Melinda; Mama would ask me if I had the child support check. Neither of them ever asked me about me and that’s not me being a baby, that’s me being a pre-adolescent needing reassurance, love, guidance and getting anything but.

Poor me, I know.

Every single time my dad would ask about Marco or Melinda, I would feel a sting inside. A slice to my heart. I tried convincing myself that I was being dramatic and that of course Papa loved me like he did them. I tried convincing myself that the only reason he always asked about them was because he missed them and they refused to have any contact with him. But. The bottom line is that it made me feel like… well… nothing.

brand NOTHING

I honestly started wondering if maybe the only reason my dad picked me up for weekends was to get details about Marco, Melinda, and my mom. Yet I never said anything to him about how it made me feel; I never told him to stop.

I would continue gossiping and when it would be time to go home, I’d inquire about the check to give to Mama when he dropped me off. Lord knows I didn’t want her wrath bestowed upon me if I came home without some money.

Fast forward a lifetime and honestly (and sadly), things haven’t really changed.

Today my 80-year-old dad can’t go a day without complaining that he hears from nobody and that he has to go on The Facebook to find out anything. And he always, always asks if I’ve talked with my one nephew (my brother’s oldest 23 year-old son). Rarely does he ask how my own daughter is doing. Maybe it’s because he sees pictures of her on Facebook; maybe it’s because he knows I won’t ever let that ray of sunshine turn grey.

It’s a damn good thing I have faith in myself.

It’s a damn good thing I’m a great mom.

I may not be the best (attentive) wife, but my mom pants are always on.

I refuse to do unto my daughter what was done to me.

She won’t be getting belittled on the daily. She won’t be made to feel like nothing on the daily. It’s not going to happen.

She won’t be branded to feel insignificant.

 

brand X

caged

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the stars.

The news that occasionally aired on the TV told her she’d been there over two months, but no matter how hard she tried thinking about the last time she laid on the cool, prickly grass with her kids nuzzled into her on either side as they all gazed up at the night sky, she just couldn’t remember.

Oh how she missed her babies.

Ethan was 9 and sure to be quite upset that she was gone; Emily, 6, probably cried a lot for their mommy.

Maybe this is why God took them away from me and gave them to Brad? All that time I spent pissed that they were with him during the week and me on weekends… maybe God knew I’d be taken away from them. Maybe He was protecting them.

Jennifer’s arm started to ache. She had it scrunched below her for too long. She needed to stretch.

But she couldn’t.

The cage wasn’t much bigger than that for a medium sized dog. Like a bulldog. Of course a bulldog would at least have a bit more room to move around than Jennifer whose body folded and remained contorted for hours on end until she was released for cleaning or sex.

Jennifer did her best to keep believing she’d catch a break and be freed, but the days were so fucking excruciatingly long. She even begged the male captor—“Babe”— to shoot her with the rifle he hid behind the door to the mobile home.

Babe just coughed out a laugh. “How you gone make me a baby if I shoo-cha?”

That was the last time Jennifer allowed tears to stream down her face. Inside she screamed and cried all the time, but when Babe and the female abductor called “Kitten” were nearby, Jennifer did her best not to show any kind of emotion.

67elcona

 

The nutty aroma of coffee filled the air. Jennifer tried focusing on that rather than the nearby putrid scent of her own excrement as she opened her eyes to a brightness washing over her.

She was hungry.

It had been at least two days since she was given some food. Her stomach started twisting at the scent of the coffee, and when the sizzle of something frying started to scream out, Jennifer finally couldn’t hold it in any longer and begged, “Please can I have somethin’ ta eat. And some water. Please.”

Kitten’s eyes moved from the TV to the cage. “Maybe if there’s some left over.”

Babe wandered into the room with two paper plates piled high with eggs, potatoes, bacon.

“You should probably save some for her,” Babe said, handing a plate to Kitten. “She gone need her strength.”

Jennifer closed her eyes and started falling.

Miles below her were her children. They were small like ants but she knew they were there watching her fall; she could see their bright eyes, their blond hair. Their arms reached up for her and she reached down for them as she fell. Not a scream came from her, not a worry. She fell and fell and fell. Soon she’d feel their arms around her.

Soon.

 

 

(inspired by this week’s speakeasy prompts as well as this disgusting news story i read yesterday)

sick bastard

On Thursdays, when Matthew’s wife was working late at the hospital, he never missed “snuggling” in bed with their 5-year-old daughter.

And Sundays he never missed 10 o’clock mass.

Matthew prided himself a devoted man, singing his praises and thanks to Him.

 

 

 

i admit to not really comprehending how i came to this piece from the Can I eat this? prompt. i admit to being a bit disturbed by the piece. that’s flash fiction for you.