Tucker strokes my hair. There's something so tender about the gesture. It might as well have been him whispering I love you.
I decided to masturbate with shampoo instead of conditioner today. Because yolo. Things Jesus never said.
Pull the hair on my head the wrong way, and I would be on my knees begging for mercy. I have very sensitive follicles.
As your abilities begin to grow, your angelic side will start to manifest itself in more noticeable ways."
"My angelic side. Great. Like I don't have enough to deal with."
"It's not so bad," Mom says. "You'll learn to control it."
"I'll learn to control my hair?
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.
Who cares what colour your hair or what shape your shape is? Who cares what religion your religion or what language your language is? What is the colour of your heart? That is all that matters!
How do you know if someone loves herself? No hairstyle, religion, or ethnicity has ownership of self-love or a greater propensity toward self-hatred. The best way to tell if a woman loves herself is by how she treats herself and others. She makes self-loving choices.
Thank you so much for the rude know-it-all attitude while also having to look at your ridiculously colored hair and obnoxious facial and chest piercings. I am very fortunate to have just been schooled by someone who looks like they graduated from Care Bear Carnage University.
It was a smooth silvery voice that matched her hair. It had a tiny tinkle in it, like bells in a doll's house. I thought that was silly as soon as I thought of it.
If I want to knock a story off the front page, I just change my hairstyle.
Long hair will make thee look dreafully to thine enemies, and manly to thy
friends: it is, in peace, an ornament; in war, a strong helmet; it...
deadens the leaden thump of a bullet: in winter, it is a warm nightcap; in summer,
a cooling fan of feathers.
I’ve seen knives pierce the chest,
Children dying in the road
Crawling things hooked and baited,
Rapists bound and then castrated,
Villains singed in public square.
Yet none these sights did make me cringe
Like when my Love cut all her hair.
She was the most beautiful creature on Earth - her hair said so in that language only hair can speak.
And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair, With gold in her garment glittering, And she combs her golden hair.
Your hair is winter fire,
January embers.
My heart burns there, too.
-Stephen King, IT
Beauty is about perception, not about make-up. I think the beginning of all beauty is knowing and liking oneself. You can't put on make-up, or dress yourself, or do you hair with any sort of fun or joy if you're doing it from a position of correction.”
― Kevyn Aucoin
I brushed it until it shone and looked somewhat like it used to look,
only far thinner, and less glorious.
Her hair, just long enough now to tie back in a knot, had a coppery sheen, a hint of fire in the darkness.
Symbolic of life, hair bolts from our head[s]. Like the earth, it can be harvested, but it will rise again. We can change its color and texture when the mood strikes us, but in time it will return to its original form, just as Nature will in time turn our precisely laid-out cities into a weed-way.
Let me have two locks of your hair, and help my mother plait them into a bow-string for me. "Does anything depend on it asked Hallgerd". "My life depends on it replied Gunnar.
It was an odd situation. For a century and a half, men got rid of their own hair, which was perfectly comfortable, and instead covered their heads with something foreign and uncomfortable. Very often it was actually their own hair made into a wig. People who couldn't afford wigs tried to make their hair look like a wig.
I was the first face you saw when you were born, you were bald as my hair ran black. Now yours the last face I saw before I died, your hair ran black, as I was bald.
Do not make children cross-eyed, by having hair hang about their foreheads, where they see it continually.
It was common knowledge that big, bad city boys spent the bulk of their time sleeping around, coiffing their hair and posting pictures of food on the internet.
Interviewer: 'So Frank, you have long hair. Does that make you a woman?'
Frank Zappa: 'You have a wooden leg. Does that make you a table?
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