Quotes About Hair

It is difficult, though, not to be shamed be being nearly undressed, with bed hair and bad breath.

His hair dark as the sloes of a blackthorn, tumbled around his cheeks.

A hob played a lute strung with another reveler's hair.

My hair whips behind me, and when Oak glances back, I have to look away. Circlet at his brow, sword at his belt, in his shining belt, he looks like a knight from a child's imaginings, out of a storybook.

Butter-blond hair threaded with gold blew around his face.

Her hair falls loose in a cascade of black curls, caught in a crown of magenta bougainvillea.

And sorrows return, though we drown them with wine, Since the world can in no way answer our craving, I will loosen my hair tomorrow and take to a fishingboat.

She had white cat hair on her dark suit, she was a dedicated cat hugger.

Blue eyes glittered. A shock of golden hair - gone. The dust in the air swirled, coalesced into a thorn-twisted Shaman tattoo.

If truth is beauty, how come no one has their hair done in the library?

There are stories about winter ghosts found tangled like lice in their lovers' hair. Dead people have no hair themselves, which is how they can be recognized in winter. But in summer, the living and dead may pass each other on the street, and no one knows the difference.

You say that if we hadn't just gotten married, you would want to marry Miss Arkansas. Even if she can't spell. She can sit on her hair. A lover could climb that hair like a gym rope. It's fairy-tale hair, Rapunzel hair. We saw her practicing for the pageant in the hotel ballroom with two wild pigs, her hair braided into two lassoes.

I've lost not only my vanity but my feeling of mind-body identity, so that I no longer believe, as you did about me, that elegance of form is elegance of being. I do my best to keep the numbers on the scale where I want them and my skin and hair well tended, but my body is now essentially the vehicle for carting around what I think of as my self. Not

Poppy is wearing a loose-fitting dress made of blue and white striped cotton, with navy woolen tights and a pair of navy leather pumps. Her brown hair is tied back and has two small red clips in it. It's a very formal outfit for a young girl, Laurel feels. The sort of thing she'd have had to bribe both her girls to wear when they were that age

There aren't that many actors with hair like this. And Amazon are casting Aragorn and they're doing Interview with the Vampire' on Hulu, so there's all these good jobs.

My sister, who is a wonderful and beautiful actress now, when she was 11 or 12, she would go out and take pictures of the punk parties in the desert. She used to have blue hair, and she got kicked out of Las Vegas Day School for having blue hair.

I got makeup tests and hair tests for 'Versailles,' and the main thing they were obsessed with was that my hands were disgusting. I had three years of Irish dirt under my nails. I had to have manicures and everything.

It was always hard work to push through a crowed of reporters with the scent of blood in their nostrils. You might not think so, since on camera they appear to be brain-damaged wimps with severe eating disorders. But put them at a police barricade and a miraculous thing happens...The strength comes from some mysterious place-and somehow, when there is gore on the ground, these anorexic creatures can push their way through anything. Without mussing their hair, too.

Anyone have some mints or some gum? Bonnie asked. No one did, and she turned to Joe Hill Conley. She scrutinized him a moment, then, using her fingers, combed his part over to the left side. That looks better, she said. Nearly two decades later, the little hair he has left remains parted by Bonnie's invisible hand.

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.

The pains they took to make themselves smooth! The rashes the creams left! The futility of it all! The enemy, hair, was invincible. It was life itself.

I went into the desert to forget about you. But the sand was the color of your hair. The desert sky was the color of your eyes. There was nowhere I could go that wouldn't be you.

Fletch is back from Austin, and turns out what sounded great on paper didn't match up to reality. He says its so hot down there, I'd spontaneously combust the second I stepped off the plane. Plus with humidity turning the air as thick as oatmeal, my hair would always be a disaster. So, Austin's out.

We are middle-aged. This is what happens. All the same nonsense that comes with puberty occurs again during perimenopause—the hormone surges, the moodiness, and the hair appearing where there wasn't hair before. Except instead of filling in under the arms and on nether regions, these coarse follicles of hate are showing up on our freaking faces.