Quotes About Red hair

Aveva degli occhi azzurri penetranti e intelligenti che avrebbero certamente inchiodato i miei con la forza e la fissità del loro sguardo, se io non li avessi deliberatamente evitati, preferendo soffermarmi sulla carnagione leggermente screziata e sui suoi folti capelli ramati.

Elkins sat and watched her go down the hall. He had always loved red hair. His first love, a girl in his third grade class, had red hair. And he had always liked white shorts on a shapely woman.

If I were yourself, I would perhaps give him his head. He looks a meek enough child." "So did Heliogabalus at an early age," said Lymond. "And Attila and Torquemada and Nero and the man who invented the boot. The only thing they had in common was a cherubic adolescence. And red hair, of course, makes it worse.

There speaks the passion and the rebellion that go with red hair. My second wife had red hair. She was a beautiful woman, and she loved me. Strange, is it not? I have always admired red-haired women. Your hair is very beautiful. There are other things I like about you. Your spirit, your courage; the fact that you have a mind of your own. ~Mr. Aristides

I always had a family that instilled in me red hair was my superpower and how it was such a lovely thing.

As a fair skinned blonde, I disappeared into the background. I've always been a loner, so I suppose dyeing my hair red was a way to say, 'I'm here, I exist, I'm a human being and you can't just push me aside.'

I attract a different kind of boy when my hair's red. I get more quality men - like a more thoughtful, nerdy dude.

Oh, most unhappy man,' he cried, 'try to be happy! You have red hair like your sister.' My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world,' said Gregory.

Given Fanon's subsequent traumatic encounter with the white gaze ('Look, maman, a negro'), it is ironic that it was he and Manville who gazed at the children and could not take their eyes off them. They had never seen a girl with truly red hair, or such a blond boy, and they were fascinated.

It's my red hair that interferes with my good sense. All that color so close to my brain, it plum disorients me most days.

Had she been born 500 years sooner, Raphael would have chosen her as a model for his cherubs. Tendrils of bright red hair framed her face, a spray of freckles powdered her nose, and she was as plump as a perfectly ripened peach. Raphael probably would have painted out the freckles, and that would have been a mistake. Like brushing cinnamon off cinnamon toast.

Ron was always my favorite character, because I feel like I relate to him, like we've both got red hair, we both like sweets, we've both got lots of brothers and sisters.

Galicia. I contemplate the beautiful name as it unfolds, disclosing delicate, prancing, caparisoned horses and the lovely princesses riding them whose undulating red hair reaches to the carpet of flowers beneath the hooves. "You could always tell the Jews from Galicia by their red hair," my aunt says dreamily.

Thanks for the bargain, Theos," Megara said to the young man in the marketplace who had given her a good price on day-old bread. "It's been a real slice." Then she turned with an expertly timed flip of her lengthening red hair- it was almost to her waist now- and swung her hips as she sashayed away. As Megara grew, she was learning that her charm was a tool she could rely on.

Red hair is my life long sorrow.

A child of about eleven, garbed in a very short, very tight, very ugly dress of yellowish-gray wincey. She wore a faded brown sailor hat and beneath the hat, extending down her back, were two braids of very thick, decidedly red hair. Her face was small, white and thin, also much freckled; her mouth was large and so were her eyes, which looked green in some lights and moods and gray in others.

People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is.

Her heavy peasant face was fringed by a bang of red hair like a woolen table-spread, a color at once strange and attractive, an obstinate color, a color that seemed to make Lena feel something alien and bad-tempered had settled over her forehead...

Her Royal Highness, the cursed royal bastard, is four cubits high, shaped like a barrel of beer, has a maw which stretches from ear to ear and is full of dagger-like teeth, has red eyes and a red mop of hair! Her paws, with claws like a wild cat's, hang down to the ground! I'm surprised we've yet to send her likeness to friendly courts! The princess, plague choke her, is already fourteen. Time to think of giving her hand to a prince in marriage!

Her hair was simply red and her coat was deacon blue.

But the best stories were about their mother, how her hair was as red as blood, how she had seventy-four freckles on her face, how she was a ferryboat captain's daughter who believed that people could fly.

I can't feel exactly happy... Nobody could that has red hair

He was determined never to marry a widow. If he did, it should be one, who had a vast fortune, and who never had a child. And he had still a more particular exception; and that was to a woman who had red hair. He held these exceptions till he was forty; and then being looked upon as a determin'd bachelor, no family thought it worth their while to make proposals  to him:

She was plump, with dyed red hair and a face so caked with cosmetics that the floor of the Amazon jungle probably saw more natural light...