Best 2694 quotes in «hair quotes» category

You ready?" Evan asks, and he's looking at me, and I love his hair, I love his smile, I lo--"I Love You," I say, and as I watch his smile bloom I finally get how great those three little words are. I finally get what they really mean.

You realize the bad guy isn't wearing a black cape or easy to spot; he's funny, makes you laugh, and has perfect hair.

You really are here. (Thanatos) Hair of the dog, baby. Sooner or later, we all dance with the devil. Tonight, it’s your turn. (Zarek)

You're an idiot," she whispered tearfully. Finally, he opened his eyes and stared up at her; by then, she had moved on to stroking his hair and crying. She sat beside him on the edge of the bed, trying very hard not to bump him or let her cold tears fall on his bare chest and arms. For a moment he blinked at her. Then he asked, "Are you dead too?

You’re so beautiful. I wish I’d seen you as a child. (Acheron) You didn’t miss much. I had buck teeth and stringy hair. (Kat)

Your hair is a tangled mess,"he said, thinking he liked it that way, like a lion's mane.

Your hair is winter fire January embers My heart burns there, too.

Your hair tends to get used to the product you use. Every month or so I change it out.

ʺYour hair was beautiful too. All of you. You were amazing when we first met, and somehow, inexplicably, youʹve come even farther. Youʹve always been pure, raw energy, and now you control it. Youʹre the most amazing woman Iʹve ever met, and Iʹm glad to have had that love for you in my life. I regret losing it.ʺ He grew pensive. ʺI would give anything—anything—in the world to go back and change history. To run into your arms after Lissa brought me back. To have a life with you. Itʹs too late, of course, but Iʹve accepted it.ʺ

Your hair is all funky in the morning.

Your hair looks funny," Lief said, as soon as the Ugloids left. "It stands straight up!" No," said Nick, intensely irritated, "It's hanging straight down." Lief just gave him an upside-down shrug. "Up is down in China and you're part-Chinese.

Your hair may be brushed, but your mind's untidy. You've had about seven hours of sleep since Friday. No wonder you feel that lost sensation. You're sunk from a riot of relaxation.

Your hair isn't quite right and maybe you're a size bigger than you should be and on and on and on. I think there comes a moment when you've matured to the point where you suddenly think, nonsense. I am fine just the way I am.

Your hair looks like a haystack...but I like it.

Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm

Your skin and hair feel good, you sleep better and you start feeling so much better about yourself when you start eating properly.

You say I have the most wicked face of any woman. You say my hair is like the serpent locks of Medusa, that my eyes have the cruel cunning of Borgia, that my mouth is the mouth of the sinister scheming Delilah, that my hands are like the talons of a Circe or the blood-bathing Elizabeth Bathory. And then you ask me of my soul—you wish to know if it is reflected in my face.

You see a fleeting perfection of form merging with a significant substance, and you make a clicking noise only a hair's breadth away. You have judged something, reported something, ostensibly truthfully... And when you made a clicking noise you said something eloquently if you are skilled.

You say that if we hadn't just gotten married, you would want to marry Miss Arkansas. Even if she can't spell. She can sit on her hair. A lover could climb that hair like a gym rope. It's fairy-tale hair, Rapunzel hair. We saw her practicing for the pageant in the hotel ballroom with two wild pigs, her hair braided into two lassoes.

You should've seen my big hair in the 80's, that was a real project.

You stayed,” he murmured... Her softly whispered answer sifted into his hair where her lips rested against the top of his head. “You didn’t let go.

You spin in the sky, the world spins under you, and you step from land to land, while we . . .' She turned her head right, left, and her black hair curled and uncurled on the shoulder of her coat. 'We have our dull, circled lives, bound in gravity, worshiping you!

You’ve claimed me, little firecracker. You kicked a pair of two hundred pound men’s asses. I will never get over that. You kicked my whores out. Pete told me. You staked your claim on me, even before you realized I’d staked mine already.” He fists my hair and pulls me close to his lips. “I’m yours now … Even if I screw this up, I’ll still be your screw-up.

You turn up in the morning, you get through hair and make-up, and then you are on set working until it's time to go home. And I love that. Coming from the theater, you just turn up and you're ready for whatever happens. That energy really appeals to me.

You've changed," he said. "You're-uh-" "Yes?" "Taller." "I hope so. I was ten the last time you saw me." "And your hair's really dark now-and short," he added.

You will be getting a haircut, won't you?" Halt ran his hand through his hair. It was getting a little long, he thought. I'll give it a trim," he said, his hand dropping unconciously to the hilt of his saxe knife. This time, Pauline did look up. You'll get a haircut," she said. Her gaze was steady and unwavering. I'll get a haircut," he agreed meekly.

You will find yourself among people. There is no help for this nor should you want it otherwise. The passages where no one waits are dark and hard to navigate. The wet walls touch your shoulders on each side. When the trees were there I cared that they were there. And now they are gone, does it matter? The passages where no one waits go on and give no promise of an end. You will find yourself among people, Faces, clothing, teeth and hair and words, and many words When there was life, I said that life was wrong. What do I say now? You understand?

About GreenHollyWood who is this character?? My English teacher a fat guy about 30 or 35 years old with Glasses and short Hair.

A girl without braids is like a city without bridges.

A few other couples joined us on the dance floor and we lost ourselves among them. I'd never been able to figure out exactly what was involved in slow dancing, so I contented myself, as I had since high school, with gripping my partner to me, letting out awkward breaths against her ear, and tipping from foot to foot like someone waiting for a bus. I could feel the sweat cooling on her forearms and smell a trace of apples in her hair.

A few locks of dry white hair clung to his scalp, like wild flowers fighting for life on a bare rock.

A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane's and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird's, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face.

All things old become new again. In my youth the athletes had crew cuts and the hippies had long hair. Now the athletes have long hair and the hippies are bald.

Another theory about hair, not from my mother, but from the best friend. A woman who cuts her hair drastically is set to make some decisions.

Apesar de eu não saber ler, distinguia bem entre as letras hebraicas, impressas no lado esquerdo do devocionário, e as alemãs, no lado direito. As hebraicas agradavam-me mais: vistosas, arredondadas, levavam, por cima e por baixo, pontinhos e tracinhos, dançavam, por assim dizer, livremente no espaço, enquanto as alemãs, impressas a duas colunas, eram magrinhas, hirtas, bem comportadas. O lado das letras hebraicas fazia pensar uma cabeça endiabrada, cheia de caracóis; o outro, das letras alemãs, na cabeça bem penteada duma senhora idosa, com monótona risca ao meio.

Beauty is not in the face. Beauty is not in the skin color. Beauty is not the wrinkle-free skin. Beauty is not in the long hair or in the way, how the colorful curls on your head roll upon your neck. Looks don’t define your beauty, looks don’t last. Always remember, beauty is more than skin deep. It is not what you see outside.

As your abilities begin to grow, your angelic side will start to manifest itself in more noticeable ways." "My angelic side. Great. Like I don't have enough to deal with." "It's not so bad," Mom says. "You'll learn to control it." "I'll learn to control my hair?

At this moment, all I'm thinking about is what I'd give up for the chance to kiss her or to run my fingers through her dark hair.

Beard is like Niqab, that covers cheeks

Does God know the number of kisses before we fall in love? Yesterday, I was nobody and I believed myself important. Today, I feel my worth in you. You, with your emerald eyes and ebony hair, even your heartbeat is beautiful. You, who is my greatest joy, all other concerns vanish in your presence. You swallow time and consume space, inspiring all my passion with a single embrace. I love your existence.

But I like my big Afro. I also liked when my hair was longer and relaxed. I’m happy to have choices. They’re mine to make

Do not make children cross-eyed, by having hair hang about their foreheads, where they see it continually.

Don't ask me why am I not fine, don't say a word just come and hug me. Even if I don't hug you back at that very moment, don't let me go. Hug me more tightly, let me hear your heart beating for me, let me feel the warmth of you inside your arms when your hand is rubbing my back and your fingers are moving through my hair, burn down all my insecurities with your love.

Don't confound static electricity with ecstatic eccentricity. One will leave your hair up, the other will live up in the air!

Do you like my hair?" "What?" She tilted her head to the side, revealing her creamy neck. "Why are you asking that now?" "Do you?" "Yes, very much." "Good. Next time you think of going off on some tangent, think how my nice head of brown hair will be turning gray if you don't stop scaring me." Her lips curled in a genuine smile. She lifted her hand and touched the hair at his temple. "I think I'd like you gray too." He captured her hand in his and kissed the fingertips. "And if I have my way, someday you'll get to find out if you do.

Don't panic. Say, Hey, no problem. Run a hand through your hair like the whiteboys do even though the only thing that runs easily through your hair is Africa.

Do the lovers know that when they whisper these poems they are commemorating our love? Do they ever think of you and me or only of themselves? Do they know that I once found a strand of your hair and wore it around my neck like a necklace? That I kiss your hands more than I kiss your lips? Do they realise that our love and their love are drops in the universe’s ocean of love and that without any of these drops, the ocean would be less?

Even baldness becomes a beauty of a hairless head through the heart of acceptance

Everyone loves Zoe’s hair: teachers, waiters, bus drivers, strangers on the subway. And the ones who don’t know about the biting will even try to touch it.

Finally," Magnus said, grabbing a ten-dollar bill from a table near the door, and he buzzed the delivery man in. "I need some beef and broccoli before I face any more Mr. Darcy. It's a truth universally acknowledged that if you watch too much television on an empty stomach, your head falls off." "If your head fell off," Tessa said, "the hairdressing industry would go into an economic meltdown.