Quotes About Hair

my hair was a mass of tangled curls just like the old days, minus

She laughed. He was right. Her laughter was enchanting. So, too, the sparkle in her eyes as she glanced at him. He'd never seen eyes as darkly brown as hers. With her dark hair she should have been a study in monochrome, but she wasn't. Her cheeks matched her pink lips.

The nuns swept our hair back into high, bouffant hairstyles. This made us look more girlish and less inclined to eat people, the way that squirrels are saved from looking like rodents by their poofy tails.

Strong winds buffet the sea oats and tall dune grasses, tossing sand and seabirds where it will, winding my sister's golden hair into sunlit spirals of silk until it becomes the only good memory I have of her -- the only memory I allowed myself to keep.

Demodox folliculorum has eight stumpy legs and a tail, is about a third of millimeter long, and loves nothing more than to recline in the warm, oily pits of your hair follicles. Most adults have this mite, usually on the head and especially in eyelashes, and often in nipples.

I caught a big whiff of Sea Breeze cologne as my brother Poseidon came striding toward me, his mane of blue hair streaming out behind him.

She'd pulled the very top part of her long strawberry blond hair into a tiny ponytail, making her look like a Yorky.

At that instant the hag's noisy breathing stopped and with it all other sound. Her eyes opened, showing only whites - milky ovals infinitely eerie in the dark root-tangle of her sharp features and stringy hair. The gray tip of her tongue traveled like a large maggot around her lips.

She was the most beautiful creature on Earth - her hair said so in that language only hair can speak.

They remained silent, while the bronze tolling passed over their heads so powerfully that they seemed to hear it in the very roots of their hair like a quiver of their flesh.

Her hair was shorter and more fashionable, he guessed

Bravely, Kate went closer, joining him beside the table. "Here." She set the dragon book on it while Rohan dragged his fingers through his hair, shoving his long, sable locks back from his face. Tendrils of his hair still clung to his hot, damp skin. The heat radiating from his big, hard body and the musky male scent of him had a maddening effect on her senses, which she strove to ignore.

God, she looked adorable. She was clad in a loose-fitting morning gown covered by a pretty, frilled house apron, her luxurious hair flowing long and unbound over her shoulders in a most fetching state of dishabille. This was his beloved as he remembered her best, not the terrifyingly beautiful goddess in white from the ballroom the night before.

Favorite Places: I'm not that good at being a tourist because I'm always looking at the way the light shines in your hair or the way your dress opens to the wind & my favorite places in the world are places filled with you.

I'm learning with the older that I get that some feelings are just universal and that I'm not the only one who hates their hair or their life at times.

I went back on a daily basis until I saw IT. The album cover, the greatest album cover of all time (tied with Highway 61 Revisited). All it said was Meet the Beatles. That was exactly what I wanted to do. Those four half-shadowed faces, rock 'n' roll's Mount Rushmore, and . . . THE HAIR . . . THE HAIR. What did it mean? It was a surprise, a shock. You couldn't see them on the radio. It is almost impossible to explain today the effect of . . . THE HAIR.

down from his brow she ran his curls like thick hyacinth clusters full of blooms

For my part I have no joy in tears after dinnertime. There will always be a new dawn tomorrow. Yet I can have no objection to tears for any mortal who dies and goes to his destiny. And this is the only consolation we wretched mortals can give, to cut our hair and let the tears roll down our faces.

Hair on a man's head is like the opposite of salt in a dish; you can take it away but you can't add it in.

He wore a heavy black moustache and the backs of his hands on the rail were matted with black hair. Bond guessed that hair covered most of his squat body. Naked, Bond supposed, he would be an obscene object.

The whole scene, the empty beach, the green and blue sea, the naked girl with the strands of fair hair, reminded Bond of something. He searched his mind. Yes, she was Botticelli's Venus, seen from behind.

What do you do to your hair? Dust, hair gel, and a little gun oil. Ever thought of patenting the recipe? No.

What's the deal with the hair?" Curran tore his gaze from the book and grimaced. "Grows every flare. Can't help it. We stared at each other. "Waiting for the Fabio joke," he said.

He had the prettiest hair she had ever seen on a man: dark brown, almost black, and soft like sable, it fell down to his shoulders. She wondered what he'd do if she threw some mud in it. Probably kill her.