Just Call Me Slick

As part of Operation: God, Try To Be Less Lame, I'm experimenting with a new hair care thingie, namely coconut oil, which comes highly recommended by pretty much everyone in longhair , and I guess they would know. So when I was at Walmart with my dad last night I bought, well...not coconut oil, actually. But a product that is a blend of coconut, avocado, olive, and jojoba oils, which I think is not a bad thing at all. I also bought the first comb I have owned since I was a tiny sprog, because normally my hair EATS COMBS ALIVE, but this one looked like it could survive.

Tonight I sat down and did the whole thing through - combed out all my hair, worked in a good bit of oil, and then braided it up to leave overnight before I wash it in the morning. We shall see tomorrow if this does any good at all, or if it turns my hair into a limp nasty mess, or conversely, the Hair That Ate Albuquerque.

So far my major insight has been that I remember why I stopped combing my hair. Because even with my awesome new comb, I had to spend quite literally twenty minutes combing it to get it all neat and untangled - this after it had already been brushed well this morning! And, ten minutes later, when I was finishing working the oil in, it was already full of knots again!

*headdesks* Sometimes waist-length curly hair is just not worth the trouble.

I Refuse to Write Any More Of This Story

While I was flying home, I read Neil Gaiman's book Neverwhere. And okay, it had a few flaws - the climax with Islington was a little too pat, for one - I still loved it like crazy. Possibly because I have a huge giant kink for abandoned subway stations and secret tunnels and people living hidden right under our eyes with their own whole world. It's urban fantasy in a very specific sense, and it really does it for me, and Neil Gaiman did it beautifully.

Also, I am a horrible person. I am so ashamed to admit this, but, um...I totally ship the Marquis de Carabas/Richard. Actually, I kinda ship de Carabas with everyone, because he's one of those characters, but yeah, mostly Richard. Someone stop me.




De Carabas smiles like a cat and licks the corners of his lips like he's gotten into the cream.

And Richard is used to feeling like the Marquis is a dozen steps ahead of him and laughing as he scrambles to keep up - but this. Richard sees, as if for the first time, de Carabas' eyes, gleaming knife-bright in his dark face, the broad press of his shoulders in his leather coat, his long-fingered quick hands, and his stomach twists, because he is doomed.

De Carabas is very, very good at getting what he wants.