Best 2694 quotes in «hair quotes» category

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.

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.

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.

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?

Beard is like Niqab, that covers cheeks

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.

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 confound static electricity with ecstatic eccentricity. One will leave your hair up, the other will live up in the air!

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.

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?

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.

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.

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

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.

Everything goes away; your dark circles, your wrinkles, your spots and your acne. The layers of your skin don’t define who you are as a person, who you are to yourself, to the people around you and who you are to the world. Take care of your health, try to maintain a proper weight and diet. Always take care of yourself, your mind and your heart. Eat healthy, exercise, run, jump, relax but, don’t chase beauty. Don’t spend hours worrying about your skin or hair color.

Except that today, oblivious to everyone, there is a hair standing tall inside his shorts: a single hair: long, black and shining. Sprouting out of nowhere, it stands rebelliously erect on his tiny barren orb, not thwarted by the force of the cloth of his underwear, announcing its eventual arrival with élan.

First people lose their hair, then their vices, then their motivation. Then a toupee brings it all flowing back.

From her thighs, she gives you life And how you treat she who gives you life Shows how much you value the life given to you by the Creator. And from seed to dust There is ONE soul above all others -- That you must always show patience, respect, and trust And this woman is your mother. And when your soul departs your body And your deeds are weighed against the feather There is only one soul who can save yours And this woman is your mother. And when the heart of the universe Asks her hair and mind, Whether you were gentle and kind to her Her heart will be forced to remain silent And her hair will speak freely as a separate entity, Very much like the seaweed in the sea -- It will reveal all that it has heard and seen. This woman whose heart has seen yours, First before anybody else in the world, And whose womb had opened the door For your eyes to experience light and more -- Is your very own MOTHER. So, no matter whether your mother has been cruel, Manipulative, abusive, mentally sick, or simply childish How you treat her is the ultimate test. If she misguides you, forgive her and show her the right way With simple wisdom, gentleness, and kindness. And always remember, That the queen in the Creator's kingdom, Who sits on the throne of all existence, Is exactly the same as in yours. And her name is, THE DIVINE MOTHER.

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.

Finally the lock clicked. And the door opened. And there Lucy stood. An angel with a halo of blonde frizz. He stared at what they both knew was an absolute disaster and said the only thing he could. "I love it.

Hair is hair.

Guys who know how to use a blowdryer... Their hair is too long!

Growth of human hair is the absolute blessing for a barber

Heat in her birds of prey fingertips, smoke of gilded flowers in her aureate gorging hair.

Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls, and just wanted to go to sleep forever?

Having a haircut is like cleaning the bedroom of your thoughts.

Her hair was left down in ringing curls, a fiery crown of glory no metal ornamental headdress could compete with.

He blew himself up.” “Get out! You mean like guts all over the place?” “Not all over the place,” I said. “He was pretty well contained, all things considered.

He gave my hair a final, gentle tug and turned away. I watched him go, Hunger and longing and that strange squirmy feeling twisting my insides. Crawling into my tent, I pulled the blanket over my head and tried to sleep, to forget Ezekiel Crosse. His touch. His warmth. And how badly I wanted to sink my fangs into his throat and truly mine.

Her hair was longer than it used to be, and it veiled her shoulders like a shawl. She used it for protection. If there was one thing Sydney knew, it was hair. She loved beauty school and loved working in the salon in Boise. Hair said more about people than they knew, and Sydney understood the language naturally.

Her hair is troublesome and curly ... It falls in long, black strands, but each strand has a gentle, complicated undulation travelling through it, like a mild electric shock or a thrill, hat gives it a life of its own; it is visually analogous to a tremolo on a musical note.

Her wavy, shoulder-length hair was the colour of polished mahogany.

Her own hair was a glory of copper fire that morning, shining like a whisky still, long and loose in gentle flames down her back.

His hair had clearly been up all night having adventures without him.

How do you know if someone loves herself? No hairstyle, religion, or ethnicity has ownership of self-love or a greater propensity toward self-hatred. The best way to tell if a woman loves herself is by how she treats herself and others. She makes self-loving choices.

Aleksei with his impossible curls so very like her own, yet less seemly perhaps. Such hair is somewhat fairy-tale in a man. Poetic.

Her albino hair illuminated my dreams, shining brighter than moonlight.

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.

I'd always assumed hair was an integral part of any hairstyle.

I am nine. We are bored and Karen is dying. We drove to Austin that summer so Sarah's dad- who described Karen as /the great and impossible love/ of his life, who taught us the word /lymphoma/ and then, the concept of the prefix, how it explains where the tumor lives- could say goodbye. The house is a rind spooned out by the onset of death, what's left in the medicine cabinet full of razors & we are hungry & alone & sitting on the living room floor where the light from a naked window slices the hardwood like a melon, brandishes each, individualfuzz on my scabbed calf a field of erect, yellow poppies & we have been alive as girls long enough to know to scowl at this reveal & what better time than now to practice removal. Once, I watched my mother skin a potato in six perfect strokes I remember this as Sarah teaches me to prop up my leg on the side of the tub and runs the blade along my thing, /See?/ she says, /Isn't that so much better?/ Before we left Albuquerque her father warned us, /She will have no hair/ a trait we have just begun to admire except, of course for the hair he is talking about we hold against our necks, that which will get us compliments or scouted in a mall, eventually cut off by our envious sisters while we sleep.

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 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.

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.

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.

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