I was so happy that I came across this article on my beloved “Black Girls Long Hair” website.
Natural ladies, have you ever thought about giving Jheri Curl Juice a try on your hair? I ALSO thought about it from time to time but never really jumped on the idea. My dad, to this day, STILL uses curl activator in his hair and I am SO envious of how his hair has always looked.
So if my dad has being using this sh*t for YEARS and his hair is RIDICULOUSLY wavy and grows like crazy….why haven’t I been using it?
My hair sucks up moisturizers like a crackhead and from all the talks of people from back in the day who had Jheri Curls (I was too young….‘86 baby), they all said their hair grew like crazy. So why NOT add the Jheri Juice to my natural hair regiment. I’m going to try it and let you know how it works out. This may be what I need to get the RIGHT amount of moisture back into my hair.
Never has the waxing and waning of a celebrity’s career been so closely tied to a hair style than with Lionel Richie. It’s almost as if he flew too close to the sun during the height of his popularity, melting the Jheri curl treatment into his own eyes before falling into obscurity. But abroad, Lionel Richie never went out of style. Even today the Arab world can’t get enough of him.
According to GQ magazine in an article entitled “Lionel of Arabia,” the only unifying element between Israeli and Lebanese governments, between Shiite and Sunni Muslims is that they all love the shit out of Lionel Richie. Just as Morrissey found fanatics among the Latino population of the Southwest, Lionel Richie has a massive following in the Middle East. Brides walk down the aisle to “Truly,” citizens of Bagdad cranked “All Night Long” while their city was being shelled in 2003, people who don’t know a single word of English can sing his entire catalogue perfectly. He is adored and worshiped everywhere he goes and no one, not even Lionel Richie himself, can say exactly why.
While this one remains a complete mystery, it’s oddly comforting to know that on the other side of the Earth right now there is a man setting up for Salah in the Syrian Desert with “Say You, Say Me” stuck in his head.
it’s nighttime. the creeptastic old cemetery where senior f®ight
night is taking place is dark and desolate, and the silhouettes of crumbling
headstones that haven’t been touched in a century look kind of like teeth. the
moon is crescent-shaped, glowing that eerie, buttery yellow that’s trying just
a little too hard to fit in for halloween, and there’s a dented aluminum keg
propped up on a wheelbarrow next to the cast-iron fence that’s meant to keep
people out of the woods.
blaise just wants a fucking cigarette.
and he knows why he’s
there—“blend in, darling, that’s how we
survive”—but he doesn’t know why
some asshole with fake jheri curls is using blaise’s
lighter to set a fucking pumpkin on fire.
“what,” blaise says, out loud, unable to fully mask his
irritation. if he really wanted to, he could light up a whole pack of marlboros
with just a tiny bit of friction between his fingertips, but—“magic is for saving lives and taking them,
darling, nothing else”—party tricks are kind of beneath him at this point. he’s
not one of those losers reading tarot cards on the boardwalk for twenty bucks
and a misguided sense of purpose. obviously.
“right?” the girl next to him murmurs, slanting a
commiserating glance his way. she’s pretty, he supposes, absently cataloguing
smooth brown skin and expressively dark eyes and a twinkling garnet stud in her
nose. there’s something else there, though, something hazy, almost, about how she’s looking at him. he doesn’t recognize
her, but he’s pretty fucking positive he wouldn’t forget her, so. “guy’s a total pyro. voted for the senior prank to
be, like, burning down the cafeteria.”
blaise literally does not care.
not about the senior prank, or the pyro, or this party, or the stultifying, too-familiar
echo of petty high school gossip. he’s used to ignoring it. but his scalp is
prickling, and his blood is running a little hotter than usual, a little stickier, which—“flare-ups aren’t uncommon, darling, not when we’re in close proximity
to one another”—can’t be possible. makes zero goddamn sense. this girl
still has her cheerleading uniform on
from the game earlier. she’s probably going to start talking to him about fucking
nail polish soon. he’s safe.
“i’m parvati,” the girl introduces herself, gaze slightly
sharper than it had been. it shouldn’t be, honestly. liquid velvet shouldn’t
have edges like a knife. “you’re new around here, aren’t you?”
“not really,” blaise replies, coolly, crossing his arms over
his chest. he’s not wearing a costume. the idiot pyro had asked him if he was
dressed as “black james dean” before
his eyes had glazed over at the sight of the cheap green lighter in blaise’s
pocket. “i don’t normally come to these…things.”
“these things,” parvati
repeats, sounding amused. “so, why are you here now?”
he shrugs, parting his lips with the barbell in his tongue,
and thinks wistfully of charred tobacco and chicory-flavored smoke and silence. fuck. maybe he’d be better off
hiding out with a crystal ball at a rust-bucket carnival in, like, ohio.
“hm,” she says, looking contemplative—looking frustrated—before she blinks it all
away, feather-long lashes sweeping down over her cheeks. blaise is beginning to
feel like he’s missing something. “well, it was…nice to meet you. here. let me
get that back for you.”
he wrinkles his nose with an annoying twitch of confusion. “what
are you talking about?”
his stomach does a fucking somersault.
and then she’s flicking her wrist, a preternaturally graceful
movement that reminds him of jasmine gardens and lace-topped silk stockings and
the past—“we all have a millennia’s worth of memories in our veins, darling, we are history”—and blaise’s chipped Bic
lighter is floating over to him, blurry with magic, invisible, most likely, to everyone but them.
“have a good night,” she whispers, voice smug and soft and lyrical, a siren’s song trapped behind
plush red lips—“your allure can take many
different forms, darling, just as your response to others’ can”—and blaise has
to swallow, throat abruptly very, very dry.
“wait,” he blurts out, belatedly, swearing at himself in
three different dead languages for not realizing
sooner, for being so fucking comfortable
with the monotony of his own boredom that he hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t bored anymore. jesus. “hey. parvati, you
“too late,” she interrupts, cutting him off with a
deceptively sweet smile.
she turns to walk away, flipping a rope of thick, shiny black
hair over her shoulder, a truly magnificent display that he doubts she’s ever
had to practice. no. nothing so pedestrian. not from her.