Best 2694 quotes in «hair quotes» category

I forced myself to breathe deeply; perhaps they would have vanished. Perhaps I'd been imagining them because Brae was gone and I was scared without him, and now that he was back I'd feel safe enough again that they would go away. Perhaps it was just paint or something and would have been washed out by the sea spray earlier. I breathed again, feeling much calmer and then, slowly, opened my eyes.

If someone ever tells you that you are not beautiful, tell them that you feel pity seeing their colorless mind and heart.

If when you think of yourself, you think only of your physical body –even if you are physically fit and firm, at your ideal weight with beautiful hair, eyes or lips- if that is how you gauge your success, you are mistaken

I just don't get it. You've been in love with this bloke since you were a kid, and he's never once got his hair cut short enough that it doesn't poke him in the damn eye.

I have always thought that if women's hair posed so many problems, God would certainly have made us bald.

I lay my fantasy in the backseat of Isa's car and slide in next to her. She snuggles up, using me as her personal pillow, her blond curls sprawled over my crotch. I close my eyes for a second, trying to get the image out of my head. And I don't know what to do with my hands. My right one is on the door armrest. My left one hovers over Brittany. I hesitate. Who am I kidding? I'm not a virgin. I'm an eighteen-year-old guy who can deal with having a hot, passed-out girl next to me. Why am I afraid of putting my arm where it's comfortable, right over her midsection? I hold my breath as I settle my arm on her. She cuddles closer and I'm feeling weird and light-headed. Either it's the aftereffects from the joint or . . . I don't want to think about the "or." Her long hair is wrapped around my thigh. Without thinking, I weave my hands in her hair and watch as the silky strands slowly fall through the V's between my fingers.

I have a message for your daughter,” said Cale. “I am bound to her with cables that not even God can break. One day, if there is a soft breeze on her cheek, it may be my breath; one night, if the cool wind plays with her hair, it may be my shadow passing by.” And with this terrible threat he faced forward and the procession started once more. In less than a minute they were gone. In her shady room Arbell Swan-Neck stood white and cold as alabaster.

In Science don't confound Normal static electricity To ecstatic eccentricity. Here is what I found: Electric charges As they rise up your hair In contrast with a discharge, Rarity leaves you up in the air!

In fact, in recent years I have become more and more didactic about pubic hair - to the point where I now believe that there are only four things a grown, modern woman should have: a pair of yellow shoes (they unexpectedly go with everything), a friend who will come and post bail at 4 a.m., a fail-safe pie recipe, and a proper muff. A big, hairy minge. A lovely furry moof that looks - when she sits, naked - as if she has a marmoset sitting in her lap. A tame marmoset, that she can send of to pickpocket things, should she so need it - like that trained monkey in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

In Tulsa, a girl would no sooner have run around with unstraightened hair than she would have run around naked. It would have been worse than running around naked, letting everyone see your naps (40).

I remember our childhood days when life was easy and math problems hard. Mom would help us with our homework and dad was not at home but at work. After our chores, we’d go to the old fort museum with clips in our hair and pure joy in our hearts. You, sister, wore the bangles that you, brother, got as a prize from the Dentist. “Why the bangles?” the Dentist asked, surprised, for boys picked the stickers of cars instead. “They’re for my sisters,” you said. Mom would treat us to a bottle of Coke, a few sips each. Then, we’d buy the sweet smelling bread from the same white van and hand-in-hand, we’d walk to our small flat above the restaurant. I remember our childhood days. Do you remember them too?

I saw this thing on ITV the other week Said, that if she played with her hair, she's probably keen She's playin' with her hair, well regularly So I reckon I could well be in.

I'm talking about a little truth-in-packaging here. To be perfectly frank, you don't quite look like yourself. And if you walk around looking like someone other than who you are, you could end up getting the wrong job, the wrong friends, who knows what-all. You could end up with somebody else's life." I shrugged again, and smiled. "This is my life," I said. "It doesn't seem like the wrong one.

I say, you look smashing this evening," Zayne strode over to her, took her arm, and began helping her up the walk, "That is a lovely gown, and what is the color of the hair you're currently sporting?

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

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.

...I recall that day on the beach - the sand so brilliant, the clouds so massive, and the wind punishing your hair...

It was impossible to tame, like leeches.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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!

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

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".

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

My hair-- bob it!

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.

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?

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

OK. Yoga position 99.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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