I'm white. I'm actually about as white as it is possible to be, being from northern Europe. One of the sad things about being white is that I will never, ever have an afro, that majestic fullblown glory of HAIR. Sure, some of my friends may rock the jewfro, which is approaching the concept, but my own physical features consist of high eastern european cheekbones and impossibly straight hair (as seen at right) - therein lies the conundrum. A girl I see around McGill's MK has the most gorgeous afro I've ever seen, and the girls I used to go to school with sometimes had epic ones that made me jealous as I sat in first period with a bun of wet hair. (Fun fact: I attended all award assemblies my senior year of high school with wet hair, not on purpose but out of an inability to organize my hairwashing schedule). So, in celebration of something I can't have:
and this is how you coquette
Erykah Badu, enough said.
Vogue tries, and it's quite aesthetic in its own right, but...
nineteensixtyeight, dearies, not nineteenfortyeight!
Louis vuitton runway - miss sticklegs still fails to capture it for me.
my friend. He's African. From South Africa. And he has gorgeous hair which he insists on cutting/mohawking/something
portrait of my friend as a young man.
In mourning for limited hairstyling options,
Guy Fawkes
