After Shaving Beard Quotes

Kelsea didn't recognize the guard, but she knew his voice. After a moment she realized, bemused, that it was Dyer. He'd shaved his red beard. "Dyer, is that your face under there?" Dyer flushed bright red. Pen snorted gleefully, and Kibb clapped Dyer on the back. "I told him, Lady...now we can see every time he blushes.

Fix that hair! Close that mind! Repeat after me! Page me the second the old man croaks it! Now, are you boys ready? A Seabrook boy is always ready. Ready to work. Ready to play. Ready to listen to his teachers, especially the greatest educator of them all, Jesus. as Jesus said to me once, Greg, what's your secret? And I said, Jesus--study your notes! Get to class! Shave that beard! You show up to your first day on the job dressed like a hippie, of course they're going to crucify you, I don't care whose son you are . . .

But what is character? How solid? We cut our hair, we shave our beards, we lose a limb. We remain ourselves. In dreams, however, we swap identities licentiously. We sabotage the structures of our character without a thought.

When Lucius eventually reached Antioch, the capital of Syria, far from Marcus’s gaze, he gave himself over entirely to riotous living. He also shaved off his beard to humor his mistress, Panthea. This confirmed that he was turning his back on philosophy once and for all in order to pursue a more self-indulgent lifestyle. The philosopher’s beard had become a surprisingly politicized symbol after years of persecution under previous regimes; for some, at least, shaving it off implied abandoning one’s most cherished beliefs and values. A few generations earlier, presumably speaking of Emperor Domitian’s persecution of philosophers, Epictetus had defiantly exclaimed that if the authorities wanted to cut off his beard, they’d have to cut off his head first.

In 1917 I went to Russia. I was sent to prevent the Bolshevik Revolution and to keep Russia in the war. The reader will know that my efforts did not meet with success. I went to Petrograd from Vladivostok, .One day, on the way through Siberia, the train stopped at some station and the passengers as usual got out, some to fetch water to make tea, some to buy food and others to stretch their legs. A blind soldier was sitting on a bench. Other soldiers sat beside him and more stood behind. There were from twenty to thirty.Their uniforms were torn and stained. The blind soldier, a big vigorous fellow, was quite young. On his cheeks was the soft, pale down of a beard that has never been shaved. I daresay he wasn't eighteen. He had a broad face, with flat, wide features, and on his forehead was a great scar of the wound that had lost him his sight. His closed eyes gave him a strangely vacant look. He began to sing. His voice was strong and sweet. He accompanied himself on an accordion. The train waited and he sang song after song. I could not understand his words, but through his singing, wild and melancholy, I seemed to hear the cry of the oppressed: I felt the lonely steppes and the interminable forests, the flow of the broad Russian rivers and all the toil of the countryside, the ploughing of the land and the reaping of the wild corn, the sighing of the wind in the birch trees, the long months of dark winter; and then the dancing of the women in the villages and the youths bathing in shallow streams on summer evenings; I felt the horror of war, the bitter nights in the trenches, the long marches on muddy roads, the battlefield with its terror and anguish and death. It was horrible and deeply moving. A cap lay at the singer's feet and the passengers filled it full of money; the same emotion had seized them all, of boundless compassion and of vague horror, for there was something in that blind, scarred face that was terrifying; you felt that this was a being apart, sundered from the joy of this enchanting world. He did not seem quite human. The soldiers stood silent and hostile. Their attitude seemed to claim as a right the alms of the travelling herd. There was a disdainful anger on their side and unmeasurable pity on ours; but no glimmering of a sense that there was but one way to compensate that helpless man for all his pain.

What I realized is that God used a bearded, animal-skin-wearing, locust-eating wild man to prepare the way for His Son’s ministry to the people on earth. But John the Baptist didn’t look religious in any way. God told Samuel in 1 Samuel 16:7, “Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” It is the heart of a man that counts; the beard, in my opinion, is the exclamation point. If you believe a man’s heart is right and his spiritual qualities are good, why would you judge him based on how much he shaves his face? As it says in Matthew 7:15, “Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves.” After I thought about that, I decided I would rather be a sheep in wolves’ clothing than vice versa, you know?

He went into their temple and there met their teacher, who had shaved his head and beard and wore scarlet robes. Shaqīq [of Balkh] said to him, 'This upon which thou art engaged is false; the men, and thou, and all creation—all have a Creator and a Maker, there is naught like unto Him; to Him belongs this world, and the next; He is Omnipotent, All-providing.' The servitor said to him, 'Thy words do not accord with thy deeds.' Shaqīq said, 'How is that?' The other replied, 'Thou hast asserted that thou hast a Creator, Who is All-providing and Omnipotent; yet thou has exiled thyself to this place in search of thy provision. If what thou sayest is true, He Who has provided for thee here is the same as He Who provides for thee there; so spare thyself this trouble.' Shaqīq said, 'The cause of my abstinence (zuhd) was the remark of that Turk.' And he returned, and gave away all he possessed to the poor, and sought after knowledge.

Gene looked at me, and smiled kindly. “You never learn how to write a novel,” he told me. “You only learn to write the novel you’re on.” He was right. I’d learned to write the novel I was writing, and nothing more. Still, it was a fine, strange novel to have learned how to write. I was always aware of how very far short it fell of the beautiful, golden, gleaming, perfect book I had in my head, but even so, it made me happy. I grew a beard and I did not cut my hair while I was writing this book, and many people thought I was a trifle odd (although not the Swedes, who approved and told me that a king of theirs had done something very similar, only not with a novel). I shaved the beard off at the end of the first draft, and disposed of the unfeasibly long hair shortly after that. The second draft was mostly a process of excavation and clarification. Moments that needed to grow grew and moments that needed to be shorter were trimmed. I wanted it to be a number of things. I wanted to write a book that was big and odd and meandering, and I did and it was. I wanted to write a book that included all the parts of America that obsessed and delighted me, which tended to be the bits that never showed up in the films and television shows. I finished it, eventually, and I handed it in, taking a certain amount of comfort in the old saying that a novel can best be defined as a long piece of prose with something wrong with it, and I was fairly sure that I’d written one of those.

But what is character? How solid? We cut our hair, we shave our beards, we lose a limb. We remain ourselves. In dreams, however, we swap identities licentiously. We sabotage the structures of our character without a thought. None

{5:1} “And as for you, son of man, obtain for yourself a sharp knife for shaving hair, and you shall take it and draw it across your head and across your beard. And you shall obtain for yourself a balance for weighing, and you shall divide the hair.   {5:2} A third part you shall burn with fire in the midst of the city, according to the completion of the days of the siege. And you shall take a third part, and you shall cut it with the knife all around. Yet truly, the other third, you shall scatter to the wind, for I will unsheathe the sword after them.

I realised then that Hotan isn’t just the unofficial capital of Uighurstan; it is the current front line in Beijing’s battle to subjugate all Xinjiang. Not long after my visit, eighteen people died when the police station close to the bazaar was stormed by a group of Uighurs armed with petrol bombs and knives. They tore down the Chinese flag and raised a black one with a red crescent on it, before being killed or taken prisoner. Uighurs said the attack was prompted by the city government trying to stop women from wearing all-black robes and especially veils, an ongoing campaign by the Chinese across all Xinjiang. They claimed, too, that men were being forced to shave their beards. The Xinjiang government said the assault was an act of terrorism and that the attackers had called for a jihad. But no evidence was produced to demonstrate any tangible link between Uighur nationalists and the militant Islamic groups in Afghanistan, Pakistan and central Asia.

After the Russian Civil War, Soviet intelligence and counterintelligence officers would pride themselves on being nondescript. They wore suits and ties. They shaved. They got haircuts. They were no more tough-looking than anybody else you saw on the street. Under Dzerzhinsky, though, a menacing appearance was de rigueur for a headhunter. That included a heavy beard stubble. All Bolsheviks who weren’t at a top level were supposed to look shoddy, DeWitt Poole later wrote.

What should we do now?” She’d meant her question as a joke. After all, hadn’t they come here specifically to have sex? So she was surprised at his next words. “How about a game?” He climbed onto the bed and sprawled back into the mess of pillows against the carved wood headboard. “Like what?” A glance around the room revealed nothing. “I didn’t see any games. Do you think the lobby has some to borrow?” “That’s not the kind of game I was talking about.” “Oh?” Now she was curious. Did he mean something sexual? “Let’s play I never.” It took her a second, and then she remembered the game from high school. “The game where we say something we’ve never done and if you have done that something, you take a drink? Do we need beer?” “Yep. There’s a mini–bar in that cabinet.” She settled in across from him, crossing her legs. “Why do you want to play I never? Feeling nostalgic for high school?” “I want to know you better.” “You could just ask.” “Yeah, but this is more fun.” He grinned. “Planning on getting me drunk and having your wicked way with me?” “You read my mind.” He took a sip of beer and she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Let’s start off slow,” he said. “I’ve never watched television.” They both took a drink. The wine she’d selected was dry and she felt it in her nose as she swallowed. “Okay, my turn. I’ve never spent the night in a hotel with anyone other than my parents.” He drank. “You have? When?” “Twice in high school, once a few months back.” They hadn’t been together a few months ago, but hearing he’d spent the night in a hotel with a woman felt like a kick in her gut. “Loren, Xander, and I went to London to rescue Adam.” “Oh.” She felt instantly happy again. “What about the other times?” “Prom. A whole bunch of us chipped in to get a room. They kicked us out by 3:00 a.m. Money well spent.” She laughed. “And the other?” “I was the equipment manager for our high school basketball team. We made it to a big championship that year. Man, the moms baked every day for weeks so we could have bake sales and earn enough to get three rooms for the twelve of us. Good times,” he said nostalgically. “Okay, my turn again. I’ve never taken the SAT.” She took a long gulp of wine. “How’d you do?” “Good enough to get into college.” “Nice. But you didn’t go.” “Nope. Got married.” She took a therapeutic drink of wine. His mention of his trip to London reminded her of another thing she’d never done. “I’ve never been on a plane,” she said. Unsurprisingly, he drank. Had she thought they’d taken a boat or car to London? “But it was only that one time to London,” he explained. “I’d never been on a plane before.” “Did you like it?” She’d always wondered what it would be like to sit in a tube that high off the ground. And it was petty of her, but she liked that Rowan had a similar amount of experience to her when it came to world travel. She’d have felt inadequate if he’d been all over the world. “I was so worried about Adam, it was hard to concentrate on the flight. I’d like to go try it again. With you if you’re willing.” “I’d love to. My parents were big into road trips, and Jack never took me anywhere. I want to see as much of the world as possible.” “Then let’s do it. We’ll save up and head out every chance we get.” They grinned at each other. “Okay, another one. Prepare to get your drink on,” he said with a devastating grin. “I’ve never had long hair.” She drank, and understood his game at once. “I’ve never been in the boy’s locker room. Rowan drank. “I’ve never worn a bra.” She laughed and nearly snorted wine up her nose. “I’ve never shaved my beard.” He drank. “I’ve never shaved my legs.” She drank.” I’ve never…” She took another sip for courage. The wine was clearly getting to her or she never would’ve said her next thing. “I’ve never had an erection.

The sight of the white men’s beards, now tumbling down their chests after many months of travel, afforded them—especially the women—considerable glee. Some tried to touch them to verify that they were real, but, wrote Mollhausen, “they gave us to understand, in an unmistakable manner, that they did not consider these appendages at all attractive, though we were rather proud of them, as testifying to the length of our journey.” When the bearded men rode past them, the women burst into laughter and “put their hands to their mouths, as if the sight of us rather tended to make them sick.” 13 Unaccustomed to hairy faces, the women thought the beards made the men look like talking vaginas. 14 Mollhausen, meanwhile, could not determine whether Mohave men, who had little or no facial hair, shaved, singed, or plucked.

but I have a hard time believing they’d shave their goatees off to work for a merc outfit. Most of those guys keep them for life—it’s practically a religion. Kinda like how the console jockeys all grow scraggly-ass beards after they get their separation papers and move back into their moms’ basements.

It’s not like Father to be late,” said Philip. He slipped the pipe between his white teeth and closed down on the stem with a little click. He gave the buzzer a stab of his own, checked his watch, shot his cuff. Philip looked pretty much the same, Tom thought: briar pipe, sardonic eye, cheeks well shaved and after-shaved, hair brushed straight back from a tall brow, gold watch winking at the wrist, dressed in gray worsted slacks and navy jacket. His English accent seemed to have gotten a shade plummier. Vernon, on the other hand, in his gaucho pants, sandals, long hair, and beard, looked uncannily like Jesus Christ.

Tomorrow, after the vote, we shall make the proclamation.”4 Bessarion would have made a fitting successor to Nicholas, no doubt using the papacy to promote his ambitions to unify Christendom, liberate Constantinople, and further humanistic studies. However, a last-minute challenge arose to his candidacy. He was vehemently opposed by a French cardinal who indignantly exclaimed: “So we’ll give the Latin Church to a Greek pope, will we? … Bessarion hasn’t even shaved his beard, and he’s going to be our head?”5 If the French cardinal’s words are to be believed, Bessarion’s long beard cost him the throne of Saint Peter. Instead of Bessarion, the cardinals elected a seventy-seven-year-old Spaniard, Alfonso de Borja, who was installed as Pope Calixtus III.

I’m sorry to say you’re stuck with me.” “What if I go bald and grow a beard?” “Then I’ll kiss your sweet bald head and teach you how to shave.

GROOMING MISTAKES PROBABLY EVERY MAN DOES. Generally, people consider it an extra burden on their shoulders. To groom up daily and be well to do comes in handy more than we think of it. The prevailing idea is who cares about the minute details but friends it’s what makes an impression and after all the first idea we get about someone’s personality is how they carry themselves. But Along with this victorious shaving co is best grooming care products provider in Toronto, Canada Men’s beard grooming kit toronto

I need you to summon Ilias and Apollo within the hour." "No," Hermes said. Hades lifted a brow. "No?" "What about I have no powers don't you understand?" "You have no power, but you are a divine messenger and part of this war." "Why can't you summon them?" "I have other matters to attend to," he said. "I hope it's trimming that gods-awful beard." That was exactly the matter at hand. He also wanted to bathe. There were just some things glamour couldn't replace. "Even if that is the case—and it should be the case—you can summon Ilias and Apollo and shave faster than I can leave the Underworld." There was a brief moment of silence, and then Hades spoke. "Fine. I suppose I can just...send an email." Hermes gasped. "You wouldn't." Hades shrugged. "You have given me no choice." "After all I've done," Hermes said, throwing off his blanket. He jumped from the bed and started searching the floor for something. Hades hoped it was clothes. "If you are still referring to Ares's island—" "I'm talking about being your best friend!" Hermes said. "But best friends don't use their archenemy, do they? No. You know what's so fucking stupid about email? There are faster ways to communicate! Phones! You could just text! But you are so old, you don't even know that!