I think that it should just be a rule of thumb that if your job asks you to cut your hair… that means that it’s time to quit that job.

I never really liked my short hair; it never occurred to me that people would want it.

I’ll see a cat and instinctively start petting the hair on my back.

My hair is too fine to bleach. I get so much breakage, it’s not worth it to dye it.

By age seven, I used to comb my hair for performances, just pull my hair up into a bun. Granted, it wasn’t a very intricate hairstyle. Still, to be that responsible and disciplined at age seven is unusual.

Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.

I’ve seen knives pierce the chest,Children dying in the roadCrawling things hooked and baited,Rapists bound and then castrated,Villains singed in public square.Yet none these sights did make me cringeLike when my Love cut all her hair.

My father-in-law has ear hair like a wolverine. It fans out from the auricles, wafting from the ridge lines like cilia, like gray feathered plumage.

Nowadays, they have more trouble packing hair dryers than baseball equipment.

I get more distracted by hair or a really bad wig than I do costumes any day of the week.

Love should be unconditional, while hair should be conditioned. Air should also be conditioned, and worn in place of hairnets.

Just because I’ve got blonde hair and haven’t been to Bosnia doesn’t mean I’m a bimbo. I am still a serious journalist.

Perhaps [he had] persevered for too long, in the face of too many obstacles, his hair proof of his tenacity – the stark black streaked with white or, in certain light, stark white shot through with black, each strand of white attributable to the jungle fever (so cold it burned, his skin glacial), each strand...

I feel… sexier, I think, with short hair. I feel like an alien!

I look back at my elementary or high school pictures and I always had gel in my hair and a gold chain that I would wear outside my shirt. That’s how I was born and raised as an Italian male, and I always considered myself a Guido, anyway.

I like a grizzly look as long as it’s maintained. Facial hair requires maintenance; you can’t just grow it out and be done with it.

It’s not the hair on your head that matters. It’s the kind of hair you have inside.

I was going to buy a book on hair loss, but the pages kept falling out.

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.

I like to sing in the car with the windows rolled down and hair blowing all over my face.

You can’t get dressed without good hair.

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.

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.

It took me two years to get an appointment with Mr. Suga who cut my hair for the Olympics. Who knew? I had no idea that it would be popular.

I have hair on my chest. And it’s purring.

I found a hair in my Campbell’s soup, and I’d love to talk to them about advancement opportunities for bald people. My love is as bald as an eagle, only not symbolic of the largest prison system in history. Freedom Soup sounds like a good name for frozen stew in popsicle format.

Guys who know how to use a blowdryer… Their hair is too long!

I used to live in a gap jumper, tracksuit bottoms and a fake flower in my hair. Shocking.

A girl without braidsis like a city without bridges.

Then a soft air, a simple melody, rose to the ears of the suddenly hushed court; and for me, it was May Day again, and I was no longer cold, for the sun burned bright and the grass smelled of its sour-sweet bruisings and an old man fashioned a ballad for the Nut-Brown maid, who...

I love wearing my hair curly, but turning the curling iron all the way up creates curls that look really made up and artificial.

I love glamour and artificial beauty. I love the idea of artifice and dressing up and makeup and hair.

My voice is raspy, like Rasputin’s beard. My love is like a mustache hidden in a patch of armpit hair. Come, feel what I feel for you.

Keep it, compliments of the house. We all pitched in to give you that. Too bad we couldn’t come up with 80,000 more.

Great CEOs are not just born with shiny hair and a tie.

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!

I got a feeling I had loads when I was in primary school, ’cause I had red hair; you know, like Duracell.

The waves lie on the beach; Your hair on your back of angel. (Les vagues s’allongent sur la plage; – Tes cheveux sur ton dos d’ange. )

I’m covered in fish hair! I have a dwarf shaped like a suitcase that I carry everywhere. Women tell me I love too deeply. Wrong! I love too widely.

All things old become new again. In my youth the athletes had crew cuts and the hippies had long hair. Now the athletes have long hair and the hippies are bald.

I always worked mostly in Quebec. I never thought of the States, somehow. I don’t know – I don’t have blue eyes or blond hair. I thought I didn’t fit with the stereotype of America.

I say, you look smashing this evening,” Zayne strode over to her, took her arm, and began helping her up the walk, “That is a lovely gown, and what is the color of the hair you’re currently sporting?

I’m someone that never likes to overpower the girls in hair and makeup.

Aesthetically, I don’t really like the blond, tan thing. I am pale. So I may as well embrace the pale. Long, blond hair and a bad spray tan is the stuff of my nightmares.

Long hair minimizes the need for barbers; socks can be done without; one leather jacket solves the coat problem for many years; suspenders are superfluous.

I’m not really into makeup, not really into fuffing with hair and stuff.

I’ll have long, straight hair, like down to my back, when I go to Heaven. And I’m not even going to work out, but I’ll be in shape. It’s a whole new program up there.

Apesar de eu não saber ler, distinguia bem entre as letras hebraicas, impressas no lado esquerdo do devocionário, e as alemãs, no lado direito. As hebraicas agradavam-me mais: vistosas, arredondadas, levavam, por cima e por baixo, pontinhos e tracinhos, dançavam, por assim dizer, livremente no espaço, enquanto as alemãs, impressas a duas colunas, eram magrinhas,...

Don’t panic. Say, Hey, no problem. Run a hand through your hair like the whiteboys do even though the only thing that runs easily through your hair is Africa.

It’s all true, … I did talk about pubic hair in response to someone’s paper, and I show pictures of naked people to show what real bodies look like.