*straight hair

Straight men: “I’m going to shame women for their bodies until they change their bodies to meet my standards”.

Straight men after women change their bodies: “Now I’m going to also shame these women for altering their bodies to meet my standards”.

Straight men: “I’m going to shame women for wearing make up.”

Straight men to women who don’t wear make up: “And I’m also going to shame women for not wearing make up, and tell them how horrible their faces and skin look when they don’t wear make up”.

Straight men: “I’m going to shame women who don’t have long silky straight hair naturally, because you know that’s what I like.”

Straight men to women who change their hair to meet their standards: “But I’m also going to shame women who change their hair and add extensions to meet my standards, and at the same time make fun of women with short hair or natural hair, because they don’t meet my standards”.

Moral of this story is, don’t trust straight men’s comments about women’s looks or bodies.

anonymous asked:

The fact that we may never see Dan's straight hair saddens me. Don't get me wrong, I love his curls but like I kinda fucking loved the straightened as well

i hope he burned his straighteners in a bonfire and danced on the ashes 

anonymous asked:

Are you gonna do more straight or curly hairs without buns/bangs?

Of course I will ^^ right now I am working on some ponytails, we’ll see , maybe the next one^^

i’m trying grow my hair out people with straight hair….don’t ever say you hate your hair because having my hair is a bitch…takes forever to grow out

Royally Flushed

Pops met my ma in ’86

at the casino where she served drinks sub-rosa,

when her English was broken and she still

smoked cigarettes and skipped Sunday service.

When he was in dental school and kept his hair straight,

read science-fiction and painted to jazz in the evenings.

For weeks they didn’t know aunt Cathy had set them up.

Yet ma had fallen for his freckles, his smile lines, his steady hands,

the way he said his sentences all at once.

And he found exactly whom he wanted to come home to,

an Asian woman who knew how to talk and to cook,

who had no jewelry and perfect pearl teeth.

Six months later, they drove cross-country to elope in Frisco.

Switched off every six hours and slept in the backseat.

Ma sang along in the shotgun to the whistle of a cracked window

and rock and roll on the radio.  

They hadn’t met each other’s families, they

didn’t need to. They didn’t have other people.

In the polaroids, they were warm and gorgeous.

I came home this spring

to the dog laying at his feet in the sunlight,

to him eating her roast chicken that falls off the bone.

Pops got a perm last Tuesday and didn’t bother

to dye away the gunmetal streaks—

I’ve never seen it straight, not even in photos.

Ma wears the first diamond earrings he got her,

and now a gold cross, her English is fuller now

but you can still hear her roots in her r’s.

They don’t sleep in the same room.

She’s in bed by ten for church at six

and he never sleeps before two.

He goes to an American church on Sundays

so he can pick up dim-sum coming home,

so we can have supper with sides of small talk and not sorries.

There’s an unfinished canvas next to the basement door

of ma holding an umbrella at the Cherry Blossom Festival.

When he falls asleep on the couch watching Castle I wonder

if he still dreams about fixing other people’s smiles.