Quotes About Appearance

Miss Josette was an African-American woman, probably in her late seventies, but who could easily pass for early sixties. She had intelligent, almond-shaped eyes, smooth skin the color of rich mahogany

But being absent and being peaceful are two different things. They can look alike, but they are really the opposite.

She liked what she saw, although she knew being a not-beautiful woman was supposed to be a tragedy.

It is nice. But a pretty face is just a lucky accident. Pretty can't feed you. And you'll never be pretty enough for some people.

You can't come wandering around in at all hours of the night looking like you've been- Raped? Not to worry, Estertown's been safe for three years now, Dad.

I can´t speak.I mean,I literally can´t seem to form words.Rush was always shockingly good looking.Tall,lean,dark hair,badass attitude,eyes so green they look like leaves in the sun.But now,he´s something else.He´s breathstealing.He´s wearing a black tank top and jeans that hang on his lean hips.Both arms are covered in vibrant ink,and lean,sexy muscle.And though he still has a boy´s wicked grin,he´s become a man everywhere else

He'd changed in the ten years since he'd been gone.He'd grown taller certainly, and his body was thick with muscle, but his white blond hair was now cut close to the skull, and he had tattoos peeking out from both the collar and the cuffs of his white shirt.

She'd been told her eyes were her best feature, amber with flecks of gold

Somehow I think Trophy Wives wear more makeup and less cutlery. But hey, I haven't ever met a Trophy Wife, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they know what I know, that the true way to a man's heart is six inches of metal between his ribs.

You look like shit. Jason smiled, without opening his eyes. You sweet-talker.

Is your hair as soft as all those curls look? No.

Humans still have a tendency to think that good is always pretty and that evil is always ugly. I've found that it's so often the other way around.

Put some make-up on me and I look not unlike a china doll. Put me in a puffy pink dress and I look delicate, dainty, petite. Dammit.

You really shouldn't lean against a wall and try to look tough unless you can cross your arms. Ruins the effect.

Somehow I think trophy wives wear more makeup and less cutlery. But, hey, I haven't ever met a trophy wife, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they know what I know, that the true way to a man's heart is six inches of metal between his ribs.

You look like a B-movie Dracula.' - Anita to Aubrey Guilty Pleasures

He looked like some primitive golden god hunted to death.

Doyle's skin wasn't brown—it was black. He looked as if he'd been carved from ebony. His cheekbones were high and sculpted, the chin a little too sharp for my taste. He was all angles and darkness. Those angles looked deceptively delicate, like the bones of a bird, but I'd seen him be hit full in the face with a war hammer once. He'd bled, but he hadn't broken. The

We both turned to see Olaf standing in the far doorway. He was wearing black dress slacks, and a black polo-style shirt, the shirtsleeves a little short for his long arms. I guess there just aren't a lot of choices when you wear Jolly Green Giant sizes. He

They can't find the heart," he said, voice as unemotional as his face. The light was strong enough that I could see that his eyes were blue rather than just pale. He had a summer tan, light gold, but better than I tanned. It seemed wrong that the blond, blue-eyed WASP tanned darker than I did with my mother's black hair and brown eyes. I was half Hispanic—shouldn't I tan darker than white-bread boy?

Naturally I thought she was lying, but I soon came to realize that Hope—along with every other anorexically skinny girl in the office, and most of the guys—was able to accurately evaluate other people's weight. It was just when it came time to look in the mirror that everyone genuinely saw a wildebeest staring back.

And of course, she wore high-waisted bike shorts, a too-cropped-for-her-age tank

A basket of wildflowers on Jane's arm testified to a walk along the grounds, but she bore no sign of outdoor exertion. No creases dared to settle in the folds of her muslin dress; her pale brown hair remained obediently coiled at the base of her neck; and even the loops of the bow holding her bonnet were remarkably even. Aside from a bit of windburn on her pale cheeks, she might have been sitting in the parlour all afternoon.

That was the thing about polish. It might be pretty, but it was fundamentally obstructive, deflecting scrutiny, masking honest emotion. If she