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Wavy, Curly, Kinky : The African American Child's Hair Care Guide
Your hands-on guide to the best care for your child's hair78% (5)
Now taking care of your child's hair can be fun, easy, and trouble-free! In Wavy, Curly, Kinky, renowned stylist Deborah Lilly shows parents the best ways to style and maintain African American boys' and girls' hair from infancy to the preteen years. She presents clear, easy-to-follow hair care guidelines for the three different types of African American hair and gives you expert recommendations for the best products and techniques for each hair type.
Featuring step-by-step instructions, photographs, illustrations, and a helpful question-and-answer section, this comprehensive, user-friendly guide shows you how to:
Determine your child's hair texture
Get up to speed on hair care basics from washing to combing to braiding
Press, relax, or texturize hair
Weigh the pros and cons of cutting your child's hair
Train, nurture, and manage problem hair
Keep your child's hair healthy and looking great with Wavy, Curly, Kinky—and transform hair care time from a chore to a fun, bonding experience for both you and your child!
Living in a box
How does anyone manage to rent a place to live? It takes far more than just having a job, enough money to pay the rent each month, a deposit to put down and parents ready and willing to be taken captive and tortured if you default on the payments. They shouldn’t be called ‘Lettings’ agents. Every time I ring one I feel like a foolishly trusting puppy lolloping with imploring eyes up to a gang of 13 year old boys with firecrackers in their dirty hands and tummies rumbling for some sadism. Agents are all charm personified when you want to view something. They won’t shut up about the fact that the landlord will kindly be leaving the mangy sofa that looks like every tenant who ever lived there (and several hundred who haven’t) has tried it out with a hot date. They helpfully suggest that draping a nice dust sheet over it will make it look just like new. It’s all smiles and encouraging nods when you ask them the procedure if you would like to offer on it. At the registering of the word ‘offer’ a switch flicks in their brains and they go into panic monger mode. “If you want the flat you must give me a holding deposit within the next ten minutes, oh and I need to do a credit check on you so you need to pay me for that, well, five minutes ago. You really need to get that ?300 to me as soon as physically possible. You should expect to find yourself racing against other potential tenants along the high street, clawing at hair, pulling at shirts to be the first to present me with a pile of cash for the privilege of applying to rent this flat.” Naive as I was at my first attempt I produced that 300 quid as excitedly as Baby presented $200 to the knocked up Penny in Dirty Dancing for her backstreet knitting needle procedure. ?300 is required to ‘hold’ your place in the stampede to rent the grott hole while they check your credit references. They will tell you that the checks cost around ?100. I believe it actually costs the letting agent a whole lot less than that. Imagine how many applicants they could take holding deposits from knowing full well that they will not pass. Surely there is no incentive for the agent to get a suitable tenant; the more people they process who fail the checks the better. So as you anxiously list to them all the reasons why you are concerned that you might not pass muster before forking out (I get paid in knickers/I chew skirting boards/I have 300,000 pet bed bugs/I’m a bed wetter) they spout assuring nonsense back to you as disingenuously as an au pair comforting a much loathed child in front of its employer parents. I explain that I am under a temporary contract. “Oh that’s fine, you will just need a guarantor that’s all.” “But I didn’t keep any of my He-Man figurines.” “Your parents can act as guarantors.” Oh yes, my parents can act as guarantors as long as they have a mighty hefty income and own at least three homes on Bishops Avenue. If this was the case would I really be renting? I would be demanding a deposit from my oil barons to buy my own Pied a Terre on Primrose Hill. Should my parents not be viable they tell me that a friend can act as a guarantor. Peculiarly all of my closest friends went rather flaky on me that week. There’s nothing like asking them to guarantee your rent if you lose your job to make them all ignore your calls. So you pays your money and you fails your credit checks. And they keep your ?300! And you still don’t have a place to put up a pole dance pole! Each agent insists on using a different referencing company (It’s all probably one little old man in a shed in his back garden answering the phone with different financial sounding company names, “Good afternoon Feeble Fiscal Probes ltd. How can I help? Afternoon, Pricey Pecuniary Scrutinisers, how can I help?” Why you cannot get some kind of universal credit check done I do not understand. Ok, I do understand, it’s where they make their money. It should be possible to rock up to any agent and present some kind of generic document saying ‘this gal can rent’ or shorten it to ‘rent girl’ oh, maybe not. But alas it seems that all the rules favour the ‘landlord’ (I could barely even write that word without dry heaving.) The next time I attempted aggravated rental I was the ‘potential’ tenant from hell; all clued up on their evil procedures I insisted upon seeing details of their referencing company’s terms and conditions, certificates of qualification as a letting agent, proof of whether their underpants were fresh on that morning, character references assuring me that they didn’t drown kittens in canals. Naturally the service I received when I was the defensive, paranoid applicant was far worse than when I was the dopey deposit presenter. I walk the streets now and all I see are people opening communal front doors. I want to run up to them and implore them to share with me the secret, tell me their job, their income, their contract details, whether they have a guarantor and whether their life52.24... road trip
I suppose technically this essay should be called "travel", but "road trip" has so much more cache', dontcha think? This past weekend Matt and I had an unexpected opportunity to visit New York City, one of my all-time favorite places. It had been a couple of years, and I'd been itching for an excuse for months. His brother Michael, who just moved there from Los Angeles, decided to take us up on our offer to come help him unpack, and figure out how to organize the furnishings and such from a spacious California apartment into a tiny New York abode approximately half the size. So it was a purposeful trip, but we made time for fun breaks and excursions. Once I knew we were going, my intent was to take this week's self portrait on either the train going down, or the bus coming back... but none of those "arm length" shots came out reasonably, so I settled on one where I'm in my normal New York City mode... looking up at the astounding architecture. I really love to travel. And I don't mean just getting to interesting places. I really love the process of traveling. Cars, trains, buses, boats, planes... I associate all of them with unfamiliar vistas, interesting new people, expanding your experiential horizons, and learning useful things about yourself. And as I travel from place to place, I "collect" museums the way other folk collect souvenirs... a most enjoyable pursuit. I know a lot of people who just hate having to pick up and go somewhere else, so I'm grateful my parents made it such an enjoyable experience early on. From the time I was about four, we travelled every other year to visit my mom's family in Indiana, and though I'm sure there were other vehicles, the car I remember best from those sojourns was a wood-panelled station wagon. Most memorable was the year our family had reached it's final number- mom and dad, I was 8, Linda was 7, Kurt 5, Wayne 4, and Craig was 1. Also along on the trip was Bootsie the carsick dog, who looked like his dad the beagle, but who was the size of his mother the collie. So eight of us packed into that car for two days of monotonous driving (each way, of course) through Pennsylvania and Ohio in the days before air-conditioning, including a baby in smelly diapers, and a dog that had to be wrestled with at a rest stop every four hours to get a dramamine pill down his throat. And I remember loving it! There were individual "fun packs" for each of us with different games and snacks and- most importantly- our favorite books and comic books. My mom made each of us, except the baby she held the entire trip, a special small pillow, and marked off our "personal space" with tape. Linda and I got the back seat, because we were the "big girls", and the boys each got one of the back-seat "wells" beneath our feet. If anybody kicked someone, your comic books got taken away, so there was definitely none of THAT! Mom and dad staged mock "fights" over what to listen to on the radio, and we had to help decide by voting. Dad made up spontaneous songs about the people in the other cars. There were geography lessons based on playing "the license plate game". Mom had brought two days worth of picnic meals in a brown plaid cooler, so we got to help decide which roadside picnic tables to stop at. When we went through the toll booths in Pennsylvania, my dad would often pay the quarter for the car behind us, just so we could all line up in the back window to see the confused reaction on the faces of the drivers when the toll taker would tell them they were free to go on through. If it hadn't been for grandma and grandpa at the end of the line, we would have been happy to stay in that car for a week. Other than the Indiana trips, and one time when my sister and I got to go to Montreal with my dad for a convention, travel in my youth was pretty local. So it was a shock to everyone when I decided to travel to England and Europe the summer after my sophomore year in college. My uncle Gaylord had been stationed in Germany during his army days, but other than that noone on either side of my family had ever travelled more than a couple of days drive from home. Three months of working in East Anglia taught me how much there is to be gained from living in a different culture for more than a few days, and my whirlwind four weeks of hitch-hiking through six european countries gave me civics and art and sociology lessons I could never have learned from books or classes. Puppetry, of all things, has been the catalyst for much of my travel in the years since then. First it was traveling to puppetry festivals, which are in different places each year. Then when I was on the Board of the national puppetry organization, our twice-a-year meetings were democratically spread across the country. And for five years or so I was very very lucky to be a "site reporter" specializing in puppetry
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