tightly coiled hair

A non-black friend of mine posted as their Instagram caption, “Excuse the nappy hair” indicating that their hair was messy.

Except that “nappy” isn’t an adjective meant to mean “messy”, it’s an adjective used to describe a texture of hair, particularly tightly coiled Afro-textured hair.

I’m not trying to call anyone out, I just want to inform you that saying your hair is nappy, when it’s messy, is associating a negative image with those of us who have naturally nappy textured hair. The same goes when your hair is poofy or untamed and you say you have an “afro”. Phrasing like that lends a negative connotation to those of us who grow that kind of hair naturally, and can negatively alter the perception of black people by society.

Captain

Character: Steve Rogers (Captain America)
Summary: the reader dresses up 40’s style and Steve likes it more than expected
Words: 1170

A crowd was gathered in the corner of the room, oblivious to the thumping music and flashing lights. On a bar stool in the middle of them was a woman, slender and stately. Her dress was a rich red, curving sharply into her small waist and flaring slightly at her hips falling in curtains to the middle of her shins. Her smooth skin swelled over the fitted bodice, a rope of rubies wound her throat like a scar as she brushed the tightly curled coils of her hair off her shoulder. Her scarlet lips stretched into an alluring smile, the smile of a woman who knows she holds her audience captive, all plump lips and sharp white teeth, her black coated eyes fluttered as she folded her slim gloved hands in front of her. The gloves were equally as black, looking as though she’d dipped her arms into ink. Her intelligent eyes shone as bright as the jewels at her throat as she spoke.

She laughed at something Tony said, the sound tinkling and light in the air, causing a tightness in Steve’s chest. As he looked at her, a darkness coiled inside him, cool and sharp, hollowing out his insides. He was thrust back into a series of memories, of dancing and dresses and best friends and uniform and suddenly there was a lump in his throat and he found it hard to breathe. He had missed out on so much. For when he was frozen, the world did not freeze with him, although the others often seemed to forget that. He was not an old man, he was young and he was scared and although he had been hardened by war he had not been ripened by age. Sometimes he thought he was an entirely different person from when he went under, but then he remembered Bucky’s words,

“That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight, I’m following him.”
And he felt slightly comforted. He was still himself, still brave and kind and firm in his beliefs, but he’d been through a little more.
Despite (or because of) missing out on so much time, he decided he would wait no more, not for that date, not for that dance. If he wanted it, he was going to have to get it. He placed his beer on the counter, squaring his broad shoulders, which were currently strung tighter than Clint’s bow and walked straight into the crowd, jaw set as stone.

“(Y/n), do you wanna dance with me?” his voice came out a little more strained than he had intended, wavering over her name like a blown candle.

A fire lit up her eyes and cheeks and she glided to her feet, wrapping a hand around his arm and tugging him to the center of the room.

“Thought you’d never ask Captain.”

The music changed, becoming more vibrant and it had her heart racing and his palms sweating. With shaky movements he pulled her into him. They circled one another, gazes locked, her chin tilted upwards. Slowly and sinuously they moved together. Her dancing was graceful and elegant, almost predator like, slinking like a cat through shadows. He was in tune with the music, feet moving purposefully, and yet there was a sort of jagged hardness to him, a jarring tilt to his torso that made it obvious he wasn’t nearly as experienced at this as her.
They danced like that for what seemed like hours, an air of vitality to the two of them, lit up and shining for the world to see. But something inside Steve was stirring, after every sassy remark she made, every click of her tongue behind her teeth and every stroke of her skin on his. He couldn’t help it. He grasped her hand in his and led her out of the room.

She looked at him curiously. The soft yellow light made his skin paler, eyes more intensely blue; the colour of water of the Atlantic, where ice drifted on it’s blue-black surface, bright, deep and disturbingly beautiful.

“Where on earth are we going Steve?”
“Patience is a virtue,” his tone was light, but the grip on her hand tightened.

They reached the corridor that was lined with modern art; strikingly bold colours glaring back at them as they moved swiftly down it (she could’ve sworn she saw a painting of Tony’s face) until they were faced with a door. It swung open revealing a room, his room. There was little furniture inside and even fewer personal possessions, just the essentials along with a book or two scattered across the bed and a few CD’s in a pile on the floor. It was warm inside, inviting, enveloping the pair, and it smelt of him. Metallic, musky and manly, with the hint of something sweet.

“Your room? Really Steve, and here I thought you were a gentlem-“
His lips were crushed to hers before another word could leave her. They moved in sync, noses pressed into each other’s cheeks and tongues stroking expertly, his palms splayed out across the small of her back and the dip of her waist. He pulled back, panting lightly.

“Sorry doll, I’m a soldier, not a gentleman,” her lipstick was smudged over his bottom lip and she felt the urge to paint his neck red with it, so she stepped closer to him and pressed wet open mouthed kisses up and down it, biting lightly at his pulse point and sighing into the crispness of his shirt.

Her fingers nimbly undid the buttons as his tangled in her hair, pulling the pins out that held it up and allowing it to spill down her back. Her nails scraped angry scarlet lines down his porcelain skin, feeling the hard muscle shudder and jump beneath her touch (he wasn’t sure when she’d removed her gloves, he only knew her fingers were just as silky soft as they had been with them on). He through the shirt off haphazardly, not paying attention to it as it landed somewhere across the room, immediately setting to work unzipping (y/n)’s dress. The ruby material pooled at her waist, before falling to the floor soundlessly. He paused, pulling back to admire her figure. Her ample breasts were covered in black lace, stomach flat from the excessive training they endured, her hips were wide and gave way to her long toned legs which were decked out in black stockings, held up by a garter belt that matched her bra and had his face flushing. She was stunning, not just in appearance, but in the way she moved, the way her skin seemingly pulsed with light and energy, in the way her pupils were blown wide and her lips were swollen.

“You planning on waiting until you’re actually seventy Captain?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it doll.”

So basically the Jet Black Heart music video made me cry. And I’m not fangirling, I’m being deadass.

I can’t remember the last time a band I liked put a girl who looked like me in a video.

I’m older than most of the fandom. (I’m 24) So I was into Blink 182 and Green Day and Linkin Park and Taking Back Sunday and My Chemical Romance and 30 Seconds to Mars and allllll those pop punk and punk rock bands while they were dominating TRL and Fuse and maybe I missed it, but this has never happened with a band that I loved as far as I know. So many bands resonated with me musically, lyrically, emotionally when I was struggling. When I didn’t want to be around. When I was praying and wishing for better days

but none of them ever looked like me.

None of the girls in the videos had my dark skin, or thick lips.

None of them had thick, black, tightly coiled hair, or braids, or dreads.

None of them shared my experiences.

It felt like none of them saw me. I was invisible. (no pun intended. Lol)

But today some girls did share my features and for this first time ever, it felt like I was worth acknowledging.

It hit me hard, man. Harder than I ever could’ve anticipated. I didn’t know I cared… I had no idea it mattered as much as it did until I saw those girls in the Jet Black Heart video.

I think I just got so used to white girls being the norm, I didn’t even realize I gave up. To see brown skin in the video shocked me. And even writing this I’m tearing up because this is something I never thought would happen. Thank you so much 5sos. I really really can’t say it enough.

And I know it seems minuscule and tiny but it’s real. God, is it real and it’s beautiful and gut wrenching and gratifying and… Shit. Smh.

I’m not that broken 14 year old girl anymore. I’ve made my strides and eventually those better days came by… I’m battling different demons now (Student Loans, Electric Bills, Rent, Evil Grad School Profs, Parking Tickets, etc) but I know that seeing those girls in that video made a difference for so many black teen girls out there. I know it made a difference for me.

Representation matters. I want to thank Ashton, Michael, Calum and Luke for seeing me… After 15 years of loving Pop Punk and Punk Rock they’re the only band that I listened to that ever has.

My hair is natural and I was told by a white hair stylist that she does “ethnic” hair, and that she would do my hair.  She doesn’t say I do curly or tightly coiled hair as that can refer to anyone including white people.  I’m sick and tired of black people being referred to as ethnic or exotic (code word for anything not white).  Everyone has ethnicity including white people.  Plus, we’re not different races, that annoys me too.  We’re all apart of the human race.

I believe Vivienne has hair.
I believe Vivienne has thick, tightly-coiled, well-oiled hair, hair that the less endowed Orlesians tried to convince her was unkempt and unladylike, hair that she did not let them tame with hot ceramic or smelly treatments, but hair that she loved on and treated with fragrant Antivan oils and Rivaini rinses, with small sparks of magic to keep the ends of her painstaking and elaborate braids and buns and twists sealed. I believe Vivienne’s hair is her pride, her secret pleasure, and that she wears those elaborate hats to keep the dirt and dust from settling into her intricate updos and cute knots, and also to keep the commentary of haters out, because the haters are everywhere, and she’ll let them believe that they’ve shamed her into hiding her hair away when she knows better.

But, I mean, maybe that’s a headcanon that only becomes important when you have hair like Vivienne’s.

I find it suspicious a lot of these girls with loose curly hair are representing the “natural hair” movement even THOUGH they have the type of hair that is deemed “good” in the black community. So why are you proud of a hairstyle that is not marginalized the way nappy hair is? This natural hair movement turned from appreciating nappy/kinky hair to parading the type of curly hair you would usually associate on biracial people that’s perceived as “good/nice” hair. If your hair is not nappy or tightly coiled, you don’t truly understand the margin black women with “Natural Hair” face. It’s common sense to realize that nappy hair is not at the top of the “Natural Hair” chain. I’m only here for those with tightly-coiled/nappy hair in these Natural Hair blogs, not someone who’s natural hair falls into the “good hair” label. 

8

Crawford spotted Beverly Katz through the window of an examining room as he wove his way between the boxes. She had a pair of child’s coveralls suspended from a hanger over a table covered with white paper. Working under bright lights in the draft-free room, she brushed the coveralls with a metal spatula, carefully working with the wale and across it, with the nap and against it. A sprinkle of dirt and sand fell to the paper. With it, falling through the still air more slowly than sand but faster than lint, came a tightly coiled hair. She cocked her head and looked at it with her bright robin’s eye.

Crawford could see her lips moving. He knew what she was saying.

“Gotcha.”

That’s what she always said.