Best 2694 quotes in «hair quotes» category

I swear that girl was born with a pen in her hand, the moon in her hair, and stars in her soul.

It doesn't have to be dreads. You can wear an Afro, or braids like you used to. There's a lot you can do with natural hair

I try to be gentle, but there is nothing gentle about the feelings she evokes in me. She’s pure flame, and like her wild hair, she’s making me burn.

It was black-black, so thick it drank two containers of relaxer at the salon, so full it took hours under the hooded dryer, and, when finally released from pink plastic rollers, sprang free and full, flowing down her back like a celebration. Her father called it a crown of glory.

It takes three years Natasha's natural hair to grow in fully. She doesn't do it to make a political statement. In fact, she liked having her hair straight. In the future, she may mike it straight again. She does it because she wants to try something new. She does it simply because it looks beautiful.

It was common knowledge that big, bad city boys spent the bulk of their time sleeping around, coiffing their hair and posting pictures of food on the internet.

It was impossible to tame, like leeches.

I’ve seen knives pierce the chest, Children dying in the road Crawling things hooked and baited, Rapists bound and then castrated, Villains singed in public square. Yet none these sights did make me cringe Like when my Love cut all her hair.

I’ve seen daggers pierce the chest, Children dying in the road, Crawling things hooked and baited, Rapists bound and then castrated, Villains singed in public square. Yet none these sights did make me cringe Like when my Love cut all her hair.

Listen," said the Hemulen. "I was born bald on top and really I get along very well.

I was the first face you saw when you were born, you were bald as my hair ran black. Now yours the last face I saw before I died, your hair ran black, as I was bald.

Lizzie ignored the hair in her armpits and on her legs. It had gone from stubble to dark hair. F*** it. End of the world rules apply.

Love yourself as you are! Instead of focusing too much on the outer beauty, one must always choose to value the inner beauty. Your skin and the hair color doesn’t really matter, none of them defines who you truly are!

Long hair will make thee look dreafully to thine enemies, and manly to thy friends: it is, in peace, an ornament; in war, a strong helmet; it... deadens the leaden thump of a bullet: in winter, it is a warm nightcap; in summer, a cooling fan of feathers.

Look, moon I turned silver for you.

Man, Grandma, what big hair you have." "The better to style with, my dear.

Maybe the hairs on my head were numbered" she went on with a sudden serious sweetness "but nobody could ever count my love for you".

My mother has a theory about hair. It is that the longer the hair grows, the dumber a person becomes. She warns that too much hair will suck nutrients away from the head and leave it empty.

Merle had the feeling that he almost kissed her, but then his lips only touched her hair briefly, and all she could think of was that she hadn't washed it for days. It was crazy, really. Here they were, all trapped in this accursed sphinx stronghold, and she was thinking about washing her hair! Was that what being in love did to you? And then, was it being in love that was responsible for the lump in her throat and the fluttering in her stomach?

My hair-- bob it!

Moomintroll bent down to wake the Snork Maiden up, and then he noticed a terrible thing. Her beautiful fluffy fringe was burnt right off. It must have happened when the Hattifatteners brushed against her. What could he say? How could he comfort her? It was a catastrophe! The Snork Maiden opened her eyes and smiled. "Do you know," said Moomintroll hastily, "it's most extraordinary, but as time goes on I'm beginning to prefer girls without hair?" "Really?" she said with a look of surprise. "Why is that?" "Hair looks so untidy!" replied Moomintroll.

OK. Yoga position 99.

Nico’s hair was combed straight up, stiff with mousse, the tips dyed the color of traffic cones.

Nobody wants to give up a weekend-long excuse to dress up and attempt to outshine one another.

Of course, you were crowned with laurel in the beginning, your gold hair was wreathed with laurel, but the gold is thinning and the laurel has withered. Face it – pitiful monster.

Naked you are blue like the night in Cuba, you have vines and stars in your hair,

Not at all. It's why people come. They say it's about looking smart, or beautiful, or professional, but it's not. Gray-haired ladies try to recapture their former brunette. Brunettes want to go blond. Other women go for colors that don't arise in nature. Each group thinks it's completely different than the others, but I don't see it that way. I've watched them looking at themselves in the mirror, and they're not interested in conforming or rebelling, they just want to walk out of here feeling like themselves again.

Nothing belongs to itself anymore. These trees are yours because you once looked at them. These streets are yours because you once traversed them. These coffee shops and bookshops, these cafés and bars, their sole owner is you. They gave themselves so willingly, surrendering to your perfume. You sang with the birds and they stopped to listen to you. You smiled at the sheepish stars and they fell into your hair. The sun and moon, the sea and mountain, they have all left from heartbreak. Nothing belongs to itself anymore. You once spoke to Him, and then God became yours. He sits with us in darkness now to plot how to make you ours.” K.K.

Our hair points to the sky, the place we'd rather be....

Phyllida's hair was where her power resided. It was expensively set into a smooth dome, like a band shell for the presentation of that long-running act, her face.

O woman, father says natural is beautiful so why do you redden your cheeks and blacken your eyes? Why do you remove the hair on your legs and draw them into your brows? Why do you hold your breath lest your stomach show and hold your fart lest they know that you’re a human? O woman, father says natural is beautiful so why do you straighten your hair to curl it next and pretend to orgasm so they think you enjoyed the sex? Why do you dumb yourself down and push your breasts up? Why do you smile when you’re told to and love when you don’t want to? When? When will you stop, woman? Father says natural is beautiful but that is doubtful for what does father know he’s only a fellow.

Perhaps [he had] persevered for too long, in the face of too many obstacles, his hair proof of his tenacity - the stark black streaked with white or, in certain light, stark white shot through with black, each strand of white attributable to the jungle fever (so cold it burned, his skin glacial), each strand of black a testament to being alive afterwards.

She wears the braid every day and always, by lunchtime, the curls and ringlets of her thick mane have managed to escape in rebellious little tendrils. But she refuses to surrender to that hair of hers, and every morning, it goes back into the braid.

Promise me you won't cut your hair." Sara couldn't believe he was being so ridiculous. "If I did, it would grow back." She advanced on him and made a quick grab. His arm shot up in the air, holding the turban well out of her reach. "Promise," he insisted. "If you knew the price that had been paid for that turban, you wouldn't treat it so cavalierly!" "I'll pay it a hundred times over, for your promise." An incredulous smile flitted across her lips. "Why?" she asked, combing a hand through the wild ripples of her hair. "Does my appearance mean so much to you?" "It's not that. It's..." Derek dropped the turban to the floor and circled her slowly. "I like to watch you braid it... and the way you let a few curls on your neck after you've pinned it up... and when you brush it out at night I know I'm the only man who sees it loose and long over your back. It's a part of you that only I can have.

Red hair like yours is unusual in all corners of the world. Other folk have often feared the red-haired as witches, or called them soul-less... But, it's the perfect color for a mage! Red is the color of the Earth itself, and of the fire that burns within it -- and of the blood in our own veins" - Lindel, Ancient Magus Bride, V4

She must not give herself up as hopeless, as many a plain girl does, scrape her hair back into an unsymmetrical bundle, have her clothes "cut out with a hatchet and put on with a pitchfork," ill-use her skin with coarse soaps and neglect her figure. Only a beauty may dare all this, and even the loveliest cannot afford it.

She was a thin, sickly, bony child, like an eft, with fine hair like sunlit smoke.

She was sleeping on the bed like a novel that is yet to be read and he sat on the floor, reading her, moving his fingers through her hair and staring at her face like she was magic that none ever understood.

she's got oceans tucked away in her hair poems swim under her skin.

Si l'on ne se définit qu'en s'opposant, j'étais l'indéfini en chair et en os; si l'amour et la haine sont l'avers et le revers de la même médaille, je n'aimais rien ni personne. C'était bien fait: on ne peut pas demander à la fois de haïr et de plaire. Ni de plaire et d'aimer.

Skulduggery." "Fletcher." Fletcher stuck out his hand. Skulduggery observed it for a moment. "I'm sorry, what are we doing now?" "Shaking hands," Fletcher said. "Like adults. I just want you to know that this past year has changed me. I've grown, as a person. I'm not the same Fletcher you used to know. "You look a lot like him." "Well, yeah, but-" "And you have the same ridiculous hair." "Can we just shake hands?" "Of course we can," Skulduggery said, and they shook. "Now what?" "I, uh...I don't really know. What do adults usually do after they shake hands?" "Generally, the first thing they do is let go." "Oh, right," Fletcher said, and Skulduggery took his hand back. "So, Skulduggery, how have you been? You're looking well. That's a really nice tie. "It's blue." "And such a nice shade." Skulduggery looked at Valkyrie. "You promised me he wouldn't be annoying.

Some days you live in pajamas, and your hair kind-of has that Albert Einstein look.

Some boys feel they are like girls, They are gentle, and like their hair in curls.

Some days after, the girl encountered her again, in a dream, as she was years ago: a very slender young woman in a long white skirt, her amber hair to her waist, her eyes coal black with ardor.

Suddenly, Gabriela felt an unusual hand on her shoulder, branding itself through her clothing. Someone leaned against her body. A head now lay on her shoulder, and blond-reddish strands of hair that were not hers fell over her chest. The hand was glisteningly white with a hint of gray and overflown with blue, halted seams, and rested on Gabriela's hand like a stone on sand.

Some of us are happy with our African hair, thank you very much. I don't want some poor Indian girl's hair. And I wish to God I could buy black hair products from black people for once. How we going to make it in this country if we don't make our own business?

Sorry we’re late. Liam had to make sure his hair fell just right.

Thank you so much for the rude know-it-all attitude while also having to look at your ridiculously colored hair and obnoxious facial and chest piercings. I am very fortunate to have just been schooled by someone who looks like they graduated from Care Bear Carnage University.

The adult age begins with the blessed single strand of a grey hair.

Then a soft air, a simple melody, rose to the ears of the suddenly hushed court; and for me, it was May Day again, and I was no longer cold, for the sun burned bright and the grass smelled of its sour-sweet bruisings and an old man fashioned a ballad for the Nut-Brown maid, who would ever be true to her lover. I leaned towards the brightness and, in an abandonment of joy and because there was none to see, tore off my henin and let my nut-brown hair fall to my knees. For I would be a child again, for five minutes, and remember the time when men stopped to gaze at me, with my chaplet of flowers crowning that at which they all marvelled, and longed to touch and stroke and possess.