Quotes About Hair

I'd like to be the romantic lead one day, but I've got to grow my hair first.

I love to change my hair... long one day, short the next.

We try to stay as open-minded about casting as possible. When you're getting things down on paper, you might even avoid writing down a name, let alone if they have blonde hair or this or that, to stop.

This natural-hair movement has opened up the door for us to do so many things, for us to have conversations that we weren't able to have. We need this in our communities.

LADY BRACKNELL I had some crumpets with Lady Harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely for pleasure now. ALGERNON I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief.

The youth of the present day are quite monstrous. They have absolutely no respect for dyed hair.

Her hair clustered around her face like dark leaves round a pale rose.

I felt like I was hobbling, like one oof the old crones from Act I of Macbeth - God knows my hair felt scraggy enough that I must have looked the part.

It ought to be a criminal offence for women to dye their hair. Especially red. What the devil do women do that sort of thing for?

Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, as indeed he did.

Joan Valentine was a tall girl with wheat-gold hair and eyes as brightly blue as a November sky when the sun is shining on a frosty world. There was in them a little of November's cold glitter, too, for Joan had been through much in the last few years; and experience, even when it does not harden, erects a defensive barrier between its children and the world.

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

Fear envelops bones like new skin, envelops blood with night's skin, the earth moves beneath the soles of the feet - it is not your hair but the terror in your head, like long hair made of vertical nails, and what you see are not shattered streets, but rather, within you, your own crushed walls, your frustrated infinity, again the city comes crashing down: in your silence, only water's threat is heard, and in the water drowned horses gallop through your death.

Naked, you are blue as the night in Cuba; You have vines and stars in your hair; Naked, you are spacious and yellow As summer in a golden church.

Hexel's blue eyes were narrowed, his long, black hair looked suddenly windblown, though the candles behind him burned still. As a dramatist and composer, he had an exhausting passion for dramatics. He was lean, moody, intense; students at the music school constantly pushed notes under his door, or set his discarded scribbles to music, or dropped roses or themselves across his work.

Euphemia's eyelashes were blown back into her eyes, and her hair was whipped about until it all came down and streamed out behind her.

She was a little bit of a thing with a light untidy fluff of hair and a nose which went pink in moments of emotion. It was pink now and it quivered. She dabbed aimlessly at her hair and three of the remaining pins fell out. William stooped to pick them up, and wished he hadn't. He said he thought he would go to bed, and went.

So much hair and so badly controlled.

the pale hand of an enormous albino with long white hair.

The rest of his hair was dark and full and healthy, and his part was one long straight line of pinkish scalp, a country road across his head.

For ages, I had this mullet until someone on the street stopped me and said, 'Darling, can I cut your hair for free? Because you look a bit weird.'

I've had watermelon hair where I had pink with green tips. From the age of 13 to about 19 or 20, I never had my real hair color.

Her hair was pulled back so severely, it would have won approval from the Spanish Inquisition as a method of torture.

When we saw her again her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl, with a vague resemblance to those angels in colored church windows—sort of tragic and serene.