Bald Head Funny Quotes

Sure. What's the worst that could happen." Twenty minutes later, we had our answer. "I can't frecking believe this." I cringed. "I'm so sorry." "I'm bald!" Giguhl continued. "I look like a freak." "It's not that bad," I said. But it was. Oh, my lord was it bad. I'd never seen an uglier cat in my entire life.

He[Crystal's father] had found my height amusing, referring to me as his "little girl" at every opportunity even though I could see the bald patch on top of his head fringed by curls when we stood side by side.

She was smart like that, and lucky like that, and people loved the hell out of her. They didn’t love the hell out of me; they ran the hell away from me. It wasn’t like I was a bad person or anything, I just … had a lot of accidents. I didn’t mean accidents like I ate glue and then peed myself on a regular basis. I just tripped more than usual, and accidently set things on fire more than what would be considered ‘normal’. I got kicked out of the village school only one moon-cycle before graduation for accidently making one of the teachers bald. How do you accidently make someone bald? That’s a good question. All you really need is a bucket of warm tar to accidently toss onto the back of their head. How do you get a bucket of warm tar? You don’t go looking for it or anything—or at least I didn’t. It was just sitting on the road outside the school and I thought I should carry it inside to ask what it was.

The face of the clown in the stormdrain was white, there were funny tufts of red hair on either side of his bald head, and there was a big clown-smile painted over his mouth. If George had been inhabiting a later year, he would have surely thought of Ronald McDonald before Bozo or Clarabell.

Noah turned to face his younger sister, arching one brow to a fairly smug height. Lenga lifted a brow back at him, giving him a delicate smattering of applause. “And I was afraid you would never learn the art of diplomacy,” she remarked, her lips twitching with her humor. “It merely took you the entire two and a half centuries of my life. Longer, actually. You had a few centuries’ head start.” “Funny how you seem to recall the fact that I am far older than you only when it suits your arguments, my sister,” he taunted her, reaching to tug on her hair as he had been doing since her childhood. “Well, I can say with all honesty that this is the first time I have ever seen you forgo a good argument with Hannah, opting for peace instead. I was beginning to wonder if you were my brother at all. Perhaps some imposter . . .” “Legna, be careful. You are speaking words of treason,” he teased her, tugging her hair once more, making her turn around to swat at his hand. “I don’t know how you convinced the entire Council that you were mature enough to be King, Noah! You are such a child!” She twisted her body so he couldn’t grab at her hair again. “And I swear, if you pull my hair once more like some sort of schoolyard bully, I am going to put you to sleep and shave you bald!” Noah immediately raised his hands in acquiescence, laughing as Legna flushed in exasperation. For all her grace and ladylike ways, Noah’s little sister was quite capable of making good on any threat she made. “I mean really, Noah. You are just about seven hundred years old. One would think you could at least act like it.

Hi, Georgie,” it said. George blinked and looked again. He could barely credit what he saw; it was like something from a made-up story, or a movie where you know the animals will talk and dance. If he had been ten years older, he would not have believed what he was seeing, but he was not sixteen. He was six. There was a clown in the stormdrain. The light in there was far from good, but it was good enough so that George Denbrough was sure of what he was seeing. It was a clown, like in the circus or on TV. In fact he looked like a cross between Bozo and Clarabell, who talked by honking his (or was it her?—George was never really sure of the gender) horn on Howdy Doody Saturday mornings—Buffalo Bob was just about the only one who could understand Clarabell, and that always cracked George up. The face of the clown in the stormdrain was white, there were funny tufts of red hair on either side of his bald head, and there was a big clown-smile painted over his mouth. If George had been inhabiting a later year, he would have surely thought of Ronald McDonald before Bozo or Clarabell. The clown held a bunch of balloons, all colors, like gorgeous ripe fruit in one hand. In the other he held George’s newspaper boat. “Want your boat, Georgie?” The clown smiled.

Marcus Graham didn’t need a college degree for his career of choice, nor did he need one to know he’d just royally screwed up. He'd done his homework—no one could say he hadn’t—and still, karma was biting him in the ass. An hour ago he thought the gods were smiling down on his beautiful bald head. Who’d have guessed just how wrong he was?

Do you have a dungeon down in the basement where you put the bad kids?” I asked. “Actually, the dungeon is on the third floor,” Principal Klutz replied. Nobody laughed this time. He quickly told us that he was just making a joke and that he didn’t even have a dungeon at all. Principal Klutz must have felt bad that we didn’t think his joke was funny, because he invited us all up to the front of the room to touch his bald head. We did, and that

I don't think he'd been working on anything, other than attempting to repair a toaster or blender or something. Mostly he just read and snoozed off and on. It was his man cave." She watched Mr. Carter's expression at this non-news. He didn't look particularly happy to hear it. He took his hat off and ran his hand over his bald head.

Harry’s, “I’m warning you now, boy — any funny business, anything at all — and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas.” “I’m not going to do anything,” said Harry, “honestly . . .” But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe him. No one ever did. The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn’t make them happen. Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though he hadn’t been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, which she left “to hide that horrible scar.” Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where he was already laughed at for his baggy clothes and taped glasses. Next morning, however, he had gotten up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to explain that he couldn’t explain how it had grown back so quickly. Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley’s (brown with orange puff balls). The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn’t

Dickens is one of those authors whom people are ‘always meaning to’ read, and, like the Bible, he is widely known at second hand. People know by hearsay that Bill Sikes was a burglar and that Mr Micawber had a bald head, just as they know by hearsay that Moses was found in a basket of bulrushes and saw the ‘back parts’ of the Lord.

I'm warning you now, boy- any funny business, anything at all- and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas." "I'm not going to do anything," said Harry, "honestly..." But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever did. The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn't make them happen. Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, which she left "to hide that horrible scar." Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where he was already laughed at for his baggy clothes and taped glasses. Next morning, however, he had gotten up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to explain that he couldn't explain how it had grown back so quickly. Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley's (brown with orange puff balls). The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn't fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great relief, Harry wasn't punished. On the other hand, he'd gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley's gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else's, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received an angry letter from Harry's headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he'd tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump.

When I still had hair, it was light brown or dark blond depending on the light, thick, and wavy to the point of curls. Wherever I went, women would compliment my hair. They told me how wonderful it would be if they had hair like that, rather than have to go to the hairdresser to get it styled all the time. I’d always hated my hair, because it never did what I wanted it to. The moral of the story, kids, is that everyone wants the thing that they don’t have, and takes for granted the thing that they do. When I eyed my bald head in my rearview, I doubted I’d ever see that full, brown/blond, wavy set of curls again. Funny how you could miss something you never liked.

Maybe you should come stay with me again. Get away from that… heathen—” I snort, which then turns into a full-out laugh. Something about my mother calling Zade a heathen is just… well, funny. True, but funny. My mother is gaping at me as if I’ve told her I’m shaving my head bald and going to live the rest of my life in a van and smoking hookah. Doesn’t sound so bad, actually. Except maybe the going bald part. I bite my lip to hold in the laughter, grinning while she only grows more ruffled. “I don’t see how shacking up with a criminal is funny,” she mutters, turning away with an affronted look on her face. “What if I’m the criminal?” I question. She sighs. “Adeline, if he has coerced you to do something…