Solange is the only celebrity I can think of who “shared” her natural hair journey with us. We saw her from her big chop to what her hair has grown out to be and probably will continue to become. We’ve seen the braids and wigs and other protective styles in between and I think it such a beautiful thing to want to share with fans and the world where most people, especially celebrities, only want to show their natural hair once it’s grown out to shoulder/ back length. I think that being able to grow out your hair to those lengths is beautiful in itself. I just see a more relatable beauty with Solange. Where those who are struggling with accepting their natural hair especially when their curls are really tight and 75% of the naturals around them have really loose curls.
Alright, I still have to do work so I’m calling it a little early for me! Typing is hard in an ambulance lol. Thanks @elleleuthold for doing these sprints! I had a lot of fun continue my challenge from yesterday (found here X) I
I’ve been reading high fantasy so forgive the slight…formality?? in this one! Consider it an experiment:)
Isolde grows up alone. It is a strange thing to grow up alone; it leaves you strong in curious ways and weak in even curiouser.
She learns from her mother the strength of water, the malleability, the presence. At school she stands on the playground like a ghost, watches the other children play, and doesn’t question why none come near her. She imagines it’s why the neighbors never look her mother in the eye, why Isolde must do all the talking at the grocery store, why her father has relatives but not her mother.
She views her father as the exception in her life. The one who sees her and her mother. His eyes seem to always be locked on her mother, always watching, and Isolde imagines that the look in them is love.
It’s not until she’s twelve that she discovers that love doesn’t exist.
She finds the lie buried in the backyard, right where her drunken father had claimed to have buried it. The recent years have been hard, money tight in the city, never enough warmth to go around. It’s made her father drink (he tells her that her mother is the one who makes him drink) and the drink makes him cruel.
He is often cruel.
So she stands in the dark, the little hours of the morning while her father sleeps off inebriation and her mother stares at the walls of her cage, and holds the lie in her hands. It’s soft and sleek and oily all at once. It smells like salt and power and the sea.
She knows her mother for what she is now.
“Mom,” she says after her father has left for work. “Come with me.”
The Icelandic Language still uses the letters Þ and Ð, which used to be in the English alphabet too but which fell into disuse and were eventually left out altogether. Their pronunciation is the sound made by the “th” in “this” and “that” respectively.
Incidentally, the Þ was not included in early English printing press types. As a substitute they used y, which looks somewhat similar. Thus was the popular misconception born that English people used to say “ye” as in “ye old shoppe.”
I wish I an “early to bed, early to rise” type of person but I’m a “ok let’s go to bed early tonight, but doesn’t and ok let’s try to get up early but snoozes all of my multiple alarms and goes back to sleep for another couple hours” type of person