Beard And Mustache Quotes

In that moment, I finally figured out what kind of handsome he was. He was fiction-handsome. Romance novel handsome; but not the clean-cut (billionaire) alpha male or even the tattooed (billionaire) bad boy archetype. He was the Scottish highlander, Viking conqueror, bodice-ripper historical romance kind of handsome; an unshaven, lion wrestling, mountain man recluse, toss you over his shoulder and plunder your goodies kind of handsome. He was both scary and swoony. I wanted to braid his beard. I also wanted to run away.

I must send a beard to rescue a mustache!

His beard was nonexistent, except for a carefully trimmed goatee that met his mustache on both sides of his mouth. The overall effect was decidedly villainous. He needed a black horse and a barbarian horde to lead. That or a crew of cutthroats, a ship with blood-red sails, and some knucklehead heroine to lust after. “Look, I’ve had a bad day. How about you just walk away from my Jeep?” The volhv smiled wider, flashing even white teeth. If he started stroking his beard, I’d have to kill him on principle.“He raised his hand to his goatee. That does it. “Yeah. And what’s with the beard and the horse mane? You look like Rent-a-Villain.

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.

It was difficult to see the exact nature of his expression as, in addition to the ubiquitous mustache, the clockmaker also wore a golden-brown beard of such epic proportions as might dwarf a mulberry bush. It was as though his mustache had become overly enthusiastic and, seized with the spirit of adventure, set out to conquer the southern reaches of his face in a take-no-prisoners kind of way.

It was his goatee that annoyed her the most. Men should either be clean shaven, mustached or wear full beards.

had shaved off his beard and mustache and now looked a lot like a lost penis, wandering around in search of a body.

Ever since he repented of religion and shaved off his clerical beard and mustache, he has had the constant feeling that he has taken off his trousers, and that his nose protrudes altogether indecently and must at all cost be covered. It's sheer torment! With one hand over his nose, the deacon knocks again and again. No one responds. And yet Martha is home; the gate is locked from within. And that means - what? It means that she is with someone else... The deacon punctuates the scene inwardly with the three dots we have graphically depicted just above, and, tripping over them at every second step, he proceeds to Rosa Luxemburg Street. ("X")

Like Che Guevara, he'd appear wearing his beret, his pointed beard with the drooping mustache, and the cocksure swagger of someone who has just planted dynamite all over Cambridge and couldn't wait to trigger the fuse, but not before coffee and a croissant.

Men should either be clean shaven, mustached or wear full beards. “That little wisp looks like it was just the best he could do,” she thought,

ARRIVING AT work one day, we were startled to discover that DeSimon had shaved off his beard and mustache and now looked a lot like a lost penis, wandering around in search of a body.

I imagined that this was what Snow White must’ve felt like when she woke up in the presence of the seven dwarves. Seven hovering beards. Seven sets of bewildered eyes. Seven inquisitive expressions—partly suspicious, partly amused.

Frank scooted back like the disk might explode. He had an orange-juice mustache and a brownie-crumb beard that made Piper want to hand him a napkin.

Friends don’t let friends wear beards without mustaches.

I mean, I don't know much about the Civil War, but whenever I think of that time—I mean, ever since Gone With the Wind I've had these fantasies about those generals, those gorgeous young Southern generals with their tawny mustaches and beards, and hair in ringlets, on horseback. And those beautiful girls in crinoline and pantalettes. You would never know that they ever fucked, from all you're able to read." She paused and squeezed my hand. "I mean, doesn't it just do something to you to think of one of those ravishing girls with that crinoline all in a fabulous tangle, and one of those gorgeous young officers—I mean, both of them fucking like crazy?" "Oh yes," I said with a shiver, "oh yes, it does. It enlarges one's sense of history.

Jessup was a littlish man, skinny, smiling, well tanned, with a small gray mustache, a small and well-trimmed gray beard—in a community where to sport a beard was to confess one’s self a farmer, a Civil War veteran, or a Seventh Day Adventist. Doremus’s detractors said that he maintained the beard just to be “highbrow” and “different,” to try to appear “artistic.” Possibly they were right.

I shaved my lady mustache (ladystache) off with my roommate's gay razor (it's a gay razor because it's his razor and he's gay) and now I have man-stubble on my upper lip. Then to make it just a tiny bit sexier I broke out where I shaved. So now I have an acne mustache. I should have left it alone. Like I do with the beard. The Korean ladies at the nail place were right. "You too much hair. You do mustache and arms and chin and back and neck. Please. Too much hair, lady-man.

Women do not simply have faces, as men do; they are identified with their faces. Men have a naturalistic relation to their faces. Certainly they care whether they are good-looking or not. They suffer over acne, protruding ears, tiny eyes; they hate getting bald. But there is a much wider latitude in what is esthetically acceptable in a man’s face than what is in a woman’s. A man’s face is defined as something he basically doesn’t need to tamper with; all he has to do is keep it clean. He can avail himself of the options for ornament supplied by nature: a beard, a mustache, longer or shorter hair. But he is not supposed to disguise himself. What he is “really” like is supposed to show. A man lives through his face; it records the progressive stages of his life. And since he doesn’t tamper with his face, it is not separate from but is completed by his body – which is judged attractive by the impression it gives of virility and energy. By contrast, a woman’s face is potentially separate from her body. She does not treat it naturalistically. A woman’s face is the canvas upon which she paints a revised, corrected portrait of herself. One of the rules of this creation is that the face not show what she doesn’t want it to show. Her face is an emblem, an icon, a flag. How she arranges her hair, the type of make-up she uses, the quality of her complexion – all these are signs, not of what she is “really” like, but of how she asks to be treated by others, especially men. They establish her status as an “object.

Abdul Aziz embraced Wahhabi doctrine. He sponsored a new, fierce, semi-independent vanguard of Ikhwan, or Brothers, war-fighting believers who dressed in distinctive white turbans and trimmed their beards and mustaches to express Islamic solidarity. The Ikhwan conquered village after village, town after town. In Wahhab’s name they enforced bans on alcohol, tobacco, embroidered silk, gambling, fortune-telling, and magic. They denounced telephones, radios, and automobiles as affronts to God’s law. When a motor truck first appeared in their territory, they set it on fire and sent its driver fleeing on foot.

By the end of the second day a very fine head was revealed. Yes, a very fine head indeed, sharp beard, drooped mustache, heavy-lidded eyes outlined black. And no cinnabar on the lips; that was a measure of my painter’s caliber: excitingly as cinnabar first comes over, he’d known that, given twenty years, lime would blacken it. And, as the first tinges of garment appeared, that prince of blues, ultramarine ground from lapis lazuli, began to show—that really confirmed his class—he must have fiddled it from a monastic job—no village church could have run to such expense. (And abbeys only took on the top men.) But it was the head, the face, which set a seal on his quality. For my money, the Italian masters could have learned a thing or two from that head. This was no catalogue Christ, insufferably ethereal. This was a wintry hardliner. Justice, yes there would be justice. But not mercy. That was writ large on each feature for when, by the week’s end, I reached his raised right hand, it had not been made perfect: it was still pierced. This was the Oxgodby Christ, uncompromising… no, more—threatening. “This is my hand. This is what you did to me. And, for this, man shall suffer the torment, for thus it was with me.

It's like any time a white friend suggests Korean barbecue. Or when I see a Food Network special where some tattooed white dude with a nineteenth-century-looking beard-and-mustache combo introduces viewers to this kimchi al pastor bánh mì monstrosity he peddles from a food truck that sends out location tweets. It's like when white people tell me how much they love kimchee and bull-go-ghee, and the words just roll off their tongues as if there exists nothing irreconcilable between the two languages. It's like, don't touch my shit. It's difficult to articulate because I know it's not rational. But as a bilingual immigrant from Korea, as someone who code-switches between Korean and English daily while running errands or going to the supermarket, not to mention the second-nature combination of the languages that I'll speak with my parents and siblings, switching on and switching off these at times unfeasibly different sounds, dialects, grammatical structures? It's fucking irritating. I don't want to be stingy about who gets to enjoy all these fermented wonders -- I'm glad the stigma around our stinky wares is dissolving away. But when my husband brings me a plate of food he made out of guesswork with a list of ingredients I've curated over the years of my burgeoning adulthood with the implicit help of my mother, my grandmother, and my grandmother's mother who taught me the patience of peeling dozens of garlic cloves in a sitting with bare hands, it puts me in snap-me-pff-a-hickory-switch mode.

I struck [juror] number twenty-two because of his long hair. He had long curly hair. He had the longest hair of anybody on the panel by far. He appeared not to be a good juror for that fact. . . . Also, he had a mustache and a goatee type beard. And juror number twenty-four also had a mustache and goatee type beard. . . . And I don’t like the way they looked, with the way the hair is cut, both of them. And the mustaches and the beards look suspicious to me.81

The man was actually still a youth. He had a light mustache and beard encircling his chin, more yellow than brown. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes blue. You couldn't tell the color of his hair since it was completely covered by a bowl shaped leather helmet made of such a firm solid material that even a rather strong sword's blow couldn't penetrate it. It rested on his head gathering all his hair inside; over his ears and toward the back was an extension to ward off a blow to the neck.

She tasted disgusting, worse than Gurdyroots! Okay, Ron, come here so I can do you…” “Right, but remember, I don’t like the beard too long--” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t about looking handsome--” “It’s not that, it gets in the way! But I liked my nose a bit shorter, try and do it the way you did last time.” Hermione sighed and set to work, muttering under her breath as she transformed various aspects of Ron’s appearance. He was to be given a completely fake identity, and they were trusting to the malevolent aura cast by Bellatrix to protect him. Meanwhile Harry and Griphook were to be concealed under the Indivisibility Cloak. “There,” said Hermione, “how does he look, Harry?” It was just possible to discern Ron under his disguise, but only, Harry thought, because he knew him so well. Ron’s hair was now long and wavy; he had a thick brown beard and mustache, no freckles, a short, broad nose, and heavy eyebrows. “Well, he’s not my type, but he’ll do,” said Harry.

But what is extraordinary is that Modigliani's models resemble each other; it is not a matter of an assumed style or some superficial trick of painting, but of the artist's view of the world. Zborowski with the face of a good-natured, shaggy sheepdog; the lost Soutine; the tender Jeanne in her shift, an old man, a model, somebody with a mustache: all are like hurt children, albeit some of the children have beards or gray hair. I believe that the world seemed to Modigliani like an enormous kindergarten run by very unkind adults.

His father often mentioned young and old. He'd said it was to remind himself to put things into perspective. To remember that he was starting to age. His black curly hair, which he passed on, had begun to gray Ironically, his mustache had beaten his hair and beard to it, losing all of its black sheen in favor of silver. Even his eyes seemed a little less blue as the days went on. Even though he knew his father was aging, in moments like those, as he smiled showing him a photograph of a bright light in the shape of a person, he often thought his father was younger. He could look past the slight wrinkle of his skin and the color of his veins that he couldn't see a year before.

A unified Iran is constituted not only politically but also affectively. Liberty and constitutional rule bring "Affection among us." The affective sentiment- that of bonding among differing brothers-produces political bonds of national unity and was associatively linked with other desires. Perhaps foremost was the desire to care for and defend the mother, in particular her bodily integrity. The same words were commonly used to discuss territory and the female body. Laura Mulvey calls these words keys "that could turn either way between the psychoanalytic and the social" (1980, 180). They are not "just words" that open up to either domain; they mediate between these domains, taking power of desire from one to the other. More appropriately, they should be considered cultural nodes of psyhosocial condensation. Tajavuz, literally meaning transgression, expresses both rape and the invasion of territory. Another effective expression, as already noted, was Khak-i pak-i vatan, the pure soil of the homeland. The word used for "pure," pak, is saturated with connotations of sexual purity. Linked to the idea of the purity of a female vatan was the metaphoric notion of the "skirt of chastity" (daman-i 'iffat) and its purity-whether it was stained or not. It was the duty of Iranian men to protect that skirt. The weak and sometimes dying figure of motherland pleaded t her dishonorable sons to arise and cut the hands of foreigners from her skirt. Expressing hope for the success of the new constitutional regime by recalling and wishing away the horrors of previous years, an article in Sur-o Israfil addressed Iran in the following terms: "O Iran! O our Mother! You who have given us milk from the blood of your veins for many long years, and who have fed us with the tissues of your own body! Will we ever live to see your unworthy children entrust your skirt of chastity to the hands of foreigners? Will our eyes ever see foreigners tear away the veil of your chastity?

Even women deeply committed to the emancipatory promises of modernity were alarmed by the "inappropriateness" of unrelated men and omen socializing in the streets. In the women's press, articles exhorted young men to treat women respectfully in public. Other articles encouraged women to act as their own police and to be more observant of their hijab and public modesty. From the beginning, then, women's entry on the streets was subject to the regulatory harassment of men. The modernist heterosocializing promise that invited women to leave their homosocial spaces and become educated companionate partners for modernist men was underwritten by policing of women's public presence through men's street actions. Men at once desired heterosociality of the modern and yet would not surrender the privileged masculinity of the streets. Women's public presence was also underwritten by disciplinary approbation of modernizing women themselves whose emancipatory drive would be jeopardized by unruly public conduct.

Answers to the Twenty Questions People Ask Us Most 1. Do you like the beards? Miss Kay: If Phil ever shaved his beard, I’d think I was committing adultery. Korie: When I married Willie, he was clean-shaven and had short hair. Boy, how things change! Over the years, I’ve really come to like the look he has now, including the beard. Missy: I love Jase. I don’t like the beard. I miss the days of scratch-free kisses. Besides, he’s just too cute under there! Jessica: Yes! Although Jep is really cute under all that hair, and although he does have the Robertson dimples, I still prefer the beard. I think sometime over the course of our marriage I transitioned to loving the beard. I do make him trim the mustache every once in a while for better kisses! I also feel safer with the beard; I know no one is going to mess with us because the beard kind of scares people. For some reason, I think they think he’s a madman! Lisa: Alan is often referred to as “the Robertson without a beard,” and I like it that way!

You’re awfully quiet,” Travis said, glancing up from the road. “Are you falling asleep on me?” “Not yet.” Cat swallowed a yawn. “Just thinking.” “About what?” “This and that. Mostly that.” Travis smiled. “Sounds important.” Cat gave up and yawned openly. “Nope. You’ve unraveled my brain.” He changed lanes to pass a huge motor home that belonged on the multilane interstate highway, not on Laguna’s crowded street. She enjoyed watching him control the car with ease and precision. When he downshifted, sunlight ran like gold water over the tawny hair on his arm. As he transferred his grip from gearshift to steering wheel, the tendons on the back of his hand moved beneath tanned skin. His fingers closed firmly over the leather-sheathed wheel. Cat remembered the intense pleasure Travis could give to her with a simple caress. Sudden, stark need coursed through her, leaving her shaken. She wanted to touch him, taste him, take him so deeply into her body that she could feel every wild pulse of his release. “If you keep looking at me like that,” Travis said, “I’m going to pull over to the side of the road and do things to you that will get us arrested.” His husky drawl did nothing to cool Cat’s blood. She looked away from his knowing hands to his lips smiling beneath his tawny mustache. She remembered the feel of his beard sliding down her skin, the exciting silky roughness against her neck, her breasts, her stomach. She wondered what it would be like to feel him . . . everywhere. With a small groan Cat closed her eyes. “What am I going to do with you?” “I’ll pull over so we can find out.” “Not a good idea.” “Chicken.” “Cluck cluck. I can’t afford bail.” “I can.” “They’ll put us in separate cells.” “Damn. I didn’t think of that.

It's like any time a white friend suggests Korean barbecue. Or when I see a Food Network special where some tattooed white dude with a nineteenth-century-looking beard-and-mustache combo introduces viewers to this kimchi al pastor bánh mì monstrosity he peddles from a food truck that sends out location tweets. It's like when white people tell me how much they love kimchee and bull-go-ghee, and the words just roll off their tongues as if there exists nothing irreconcilable between the two languages. It's like, don't touch my shit. It's difficult to articulate because I know it's not rational. But as a bilingual immigrant from Korea, as someone who code-switches between Korean and English daily while running errands or going to the supermarket, not to mention the second-nature combination of the languages that I'll speak with my parents and siblings, switching on and switching off these at times unfeasibly different sounds, dialects, grammatical structures? It's fucking irritating. I don't want to be stingy about who gets to enjoy all these fermented wonders -- I'm glad the stigma around our stinky wares is dissolving away. But when my husband brings me a plate of food he made out of guesswork with a list of ingredients I've curated over the years of my burgeoning adulthood with the implicit help of my mother, my grandmother, and my grandmother's mother who taught me the patience of peeling dozens of garlic cloves in a sitting with bare hands, it puts me in snap-me-off-a-hickory-switch mode.

The Coming Out Dawn has ushered in Yet another era Whilst the sun sets on the other Bidding it farewell Rotating like the globe Each era getting its time to shine Like a star as it should Fulfilling its destiny before the sun sets Ushering out yet another era Shuttered for too long Shunned Dismissed Scattered underground among thorns Bristles,debris and twigs Among inhabitable bats, rats and stones Stalactites as chandeliers Stalagmites as cedar floors Mustaches touching their feet Beards touching the ground Disheveled unshaven hairs covered their entire bodies The people looked around They noticed their sharp resemblance To the animals living above them Surely the people thought... They must have evolved from these creatures living above them And as time passes they outgrew their long tails “Oh God!” Pleaded the people “Did You not make room for us too?” God heard the pleas of the people and pitied them And God showed the people mercy Grateful were the people Pale from the dark shelter of the caves and unshaven hairs They were guided to a place where they could share in the land The people thanked God for taking them to green pastures They set up systems On the money the people put God first and boldly proclaimed “In Almighty God We Trust" The people established a Holiday specifically to thank God for remembering them God prospered the people He brought out from the underground caves As time passes the people became selfish, greedy and violent The underground people forgot how God took them out of the dark caves The people from below forgot God's mercy Because the people lived among the stony caves They knew not how to make the land productive The people sought expertise exploitively The people concocted and instituted bitter irrational laws To hold the experts as hostages against their will Experts brought great success The experts grew crops that were traded profitably Experts were unpaid Even with the huge booming success of the crops they grew The people that came out from below the caves Unrelentingly wants everything above the caves As the era rotates From one era to the next Like each era is destined to be Until the era's sun sets

Indeed, there was such a wealth of it, and it was so easy to comprehend, that I felt a great light joy. The knowledge was like the love and like the beauty; indeed, I realized with a great triumphant happiness that they were all – the knowledge, the love, and the beauty – they were all one. ‘Oh, yes, how could one not see it. It’s so simple!’ I thought. If I had had a body with eyes, I would have wept, but it would have been a sweet weeping. As it was, my soul was victorious over all small and enervating things. I stood still, and the knowledge, the facts, as it were, the hundreds upon hundreds of small details which were like transparent droplets of magical fluid passing through me and into me, filling me and vanishing to make way for more of this great shower of truth – all this seemed suddenly to fade. There beyond stood the glass city, and beyond it a blue sky, blue as a sky at midday, only one which was now filled with every known star. I started out for the city. Indeed, I started with such impetuosity and such conviction that it took three people to hold me back. I stopped. I was quite amazed. But I knew these men. These were priests, old priests of my homeland, who had died long before I had even come to my calling, all of which was quite clear to me, and I knew their names and how they had died. They were in fact the saints of my city, and of the great house of catacombs where I had lived. ‘Why do you hold me?’ I asked. ‘Where’s my Father? He’s here now, is he not?’ No sooner had I asked this than I saw my Father. He looked exactly as he had always looked. He was a big, shaggy man, dressed in leather for hunting, with a full grizzled beard and thick long auburn hair the same color as my own. His cheeks were rosy from the cold wind, and his lower lip, visible between his thick mustache and his gray-streaked beard, was moist and pink as I remembered. His eyes were the same bright china blue. He waved at me. He gave his usual, casual, hearty wave, and he smiled. He looked just like he was going off into the grasslands, in spite of everyone’s advice, and everyone’s caution to hunt, with no fear at all of the Mongols or the Tatars swooping down on him. After all, he had his great bow with him, the bow only he could string, as if he were a mythical hero of the great grassy fields, and he had his own sharpened arrows, and his big broadsword with which he could hack off a man’s head with one blow. ‘Father, why are they holding me?’ I

to consume me alive. Marcus is clean-shaven, the kind of look many handsome underwear models possess, men of decent educational level, and also men who don’t fart in public. One of the three criteria is fine with me, really, since I’m not that picky. Beard, mustache, or other kinky things men tend to wear on their faces is what I’m definitely not attracted to. Blame this guy, Billy, I once went out with, who showed up with grains of what looked like basmati rice stuck to his chest-length beard. I was mad, of course, but mostly because he said he wanted to lose weight and was staying off carbs. If women wore mustache, we’d never get away with it. But Marcus will have no way to hide his rice from me, even

When you became a wizard you were expected to stop shaving and grow a beard like a gorse bush. Very senior wizards looked capable of straining nourishment out of the air via their mustaches, like whales.

When I couldn’t grow a full beard I took it as a sign from God to grow a mustache instead.

You’re trying to explain the teeth, right?”  I sounded pathetic, like a child who needed reassurance.  I tried not to fidget on top of that. He gave me the reassurance I needed in one of his rare nods. Okay.  No kissing.  Just him moving closer.  He slept at the foot of my bed every night.  That was pretty close—right on my feet—and no big deal.  But he had fur on when he did that.  Now he looked... I eyed him again.  My stomach did a funny flip.  Maybe my fear wasn’t about his reaction, but mine.  I was afraid I’d forget myself.  I needed his control.  I took a deep breath. “It’s okay then.  Go ahead, explain.  I’ll behave,” I promised quietly.  I saw his mustache twitch with a quick smile.  The canines explained some of the facial hair, but the full-bearded, crazy-man look seemed overkill. After a slight hesitation, he leaned forward again while keeping his hands loose at his sides.  I pushed back the fear and held still.  He didn’t stop his slow approach until his whiskers tickled the side of my neck and collarbone.  There he paused and inhaled deeply. As soon as he inhaled, I knew what he was doing, and although I didn’t move, fear blossomed.  Heart pounding, eyes wide, I waited for him to finish scenting me as a werewolf would a potential Mate, not a distant inhale, but an up-close sample of my scent, infinitely more potent.  His warm exhale sent goose bumps skittering over my arms.  I braced myself, anticipating some type of slip in his highly-praised control.  He leisurely inhaled once more then lifted his head, exhaling as he went. With his face only inches from mine, he opened his mouth to display his teeth again.  The canines had grown even more pronounced, the surrounding gums swollen from their thickness. I didn’t know what to say.  He had canines when in his human form because of me. “So, when you’re around me, they’re worse?  I guess that means they’re like that all the time.” He shrugged and casually took a step back.  I was unsure what the shrug meant. We

And then they came tumbling from his luscious lips like poop from a piñata, five simple words that have seared themselves forever into my memory. “I like your blonde mustache,” he said.

East and West Pakistan are just as different in the appearance of their inhabitants. West Pakistan is a land of tall men with high cheekbones who often sport large black mustaches and wear turbans, baggy trousers, and speak Urdu, whereas in East Pakistan the men are short, bearded, wear skirts, skullcaps, and speak Bengali.

I am amazed that you talk to one another at all. Each of you is a different solution to the human face and personifies a different understanding of man. If a bearded man is okay, then a clean-shaven or mustached one is a monster, a clown, a degenerate, and a general absurdity; and if a clean-shaven man is the right type, then a bearded one is a monstrosity, sloppiness, nonsense, and foulness. Well then! What are you waiting for? Start punching!

If I had to guess, he was well over six feet tall with a muscular build. I could see the traces of tattoos on his hands. His skin was honey colored, and smooth, practically glowing with the cream-colored suit. Full, kissable lips drew me to the beard and mustache combo that adorned his handsome face. The locs on his head were pulled into a neat bun.

Jesse recited, “ ‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.’ ” Bob nodded. “You hear it at funerals.” Jesse let the book divide from his finger and sought Psalm 41, which he scanned, vigorously scratching his two-inch beard, gingerly petting it smooth. He ironed out the page with his fist and knee and smiled wryly at Bob and then began a private study of the words, as if he were without company. Bob tried to imagine how Jesse’s children saw him: he would be the giant figure who could fling them high as the ceiling. They knew his legs, the sting of his mustache against their cheeks, the gentle way that Jesse had of fingering their hair. They didn’t know how he made his living or why they so often moved; they didn’t even know their father’s name; and it all seemed such an injustice to Bob that he asked, “Do you ever give your past life any thought?” Jesse squinted at him. “I don’t get your meaning.” Bob managed a grin and asked, “Do you ever give any thought to the men you’ve killed?

Leftists’ mustaches covered their upper lips, to distinguish them from the Muslims, who carved out a razor-thin line between upper lip and mustache. Some Muslims also grew beards or what stubble they could muster. The leftist women wore khaki or dull green—large, loose shirts over loose trousers—and the Muslim girls scarves or chadors. In between these two immutable rivers stood the non-political students, who were all mechanically branded as monarchists.

The portrait had been discovered in 1860 when Mr. William Oakes Hunt, the town clerk of Stratford, employed a visiting art expert named Simon Collins to examine a group of portraits long lodged inside the Hunt attic. These paintings were believed to have descended from the aristocratic Clopton family. Mr. Hunt recalled as a child using the portraits for archery practice, but by 1860 he’d become curious as to their value. When hired to appraise these attic portraits, Simon Collins had just finished the prestigious job of restoring Stratford’s world-famous funerary bust of Shakespeare that hovered like a putty-nosed wraith over the poet’s tomb in the chancel of Holy Trinity Church. Posed with pen and paper while sporting the pickdevant-styled pointy beard and up-brushed mustache popular from 1570 to 1600, the bust has long been championed as one of the most authentic likenesses of the poet; nevertheless, back in 1793 a curator named Edmond Malone had decided to whitewash the entire bust, which until then had been unique in portraying Shakespeare wearing a blood-red jerkin beneath a black sleeveless jacket.

mustache and beard; a button nose; thin lips; and wavy hair. 1.Draw the basic outline. 2.Add features. 3.Shade and define details. Face 3 has a chiseled, long face; narrowed eyes; big ears; and a sideswept

Deep furrows mark his wide forehead and raised eyebrows convey a mood of deep thoughtfulness. The drooping lips, covered by a thick mustache and a long beard, present to us the image of one of those men who, as Schopenhauer once remarked, carry engraved on their foreheads the word DISAPPOINTED, either because their lives did not tum out to be what they expected or because their struggle against the world proved to be futile. We suspect that the latter case applies to Antisthenes. The man who in a Herculean attempt to set the world aright transformed himself into a dog for the purpose of denouncing its idiocy and irrationality probably faced death under a burden of existential disappointment.

There,” said Hermione, “how does he look, Harry?” It was just possible to discern Ron under his disguise, but only, Harry thought, because he knew him so well. Ron’s hair was now long and wavy; he had a thick brown beard and mustache, no freckles, a short, broad nose, and heavy eyebrows. “Well, he’s not my type, but he’ll do,” said Harry. “Shall we go, then?

I don’t see how a man can experience a true midlife crisis without some sort of mustache or beard expression. It’s how we recognize each other when passing on the street. You know, a fraternal thing, like Deadheads and their tie-dye shirts. I

It’s a lucrative business. Eastman is a compact, middle-aged guy with a weather-beaten face adorned with a scrap of white beard and mustache. He tops it all off with a cowboy-hat-shaped hard hat. Eastman’s father was in the construction business, and Eastman and his three brothers grew up greasing the trucks. By his own account, Eastman barely graduated from high school. But he took a bunch of night courses to learn things like project estimating, and started his own contracting business in 1994. His company did all kinds of contracting work, including a little beach renourishment, until the real estate market crash in 2006. Eastman realized that he would do better to rely on the steady forces of erosion and the government funding earmarked to fight it than to tie his fortunes to the vicissitudes of the real estate market. “When the market dried up, we reinvented ourselves,” he says. Today Eastman Aggregate Enterprises does nothing but beach nourishment, all over Florida and in neighboring states. Eastman has five of his own trucks and forty-plus people working for him. His company hauls in about $15 million per year.

The grandfather was dresses in a black broadcloth suit and he wore kid congress gaiters and a black tie on a short, hard collar. He carried his black slouch hat in his hand. His white beard was cropped close and his white eyebrows overhung his eyes like mustaches. The blue eyes were sternly merry. About the whole face and figure there was a granite like dignity, so that every motion seemed an impossible thing. Once at rest, it seemed the old man would be stone, would never move again. His steps were slow and certain. Once made, no step would ever be retracted: once headed in a direction, the path would never bend nor the pace increase nor slow.

Commander Peary is too well known for me to describe him at length; thick reddish hair turning gray; heavy, bushy eyebrows shading his "sharpshooter's eyes" of steel gray, and long mustache. His hair grows rapidly and, when on the march, a thick heavy beard quickly appears. He is six feet tall, very graceful, and well built, especially about the chest and shoulders; long arms, and legs slightly bowed. Since losing his toes, he walks with a peculiar slide-like stride. He has a voice clear and loud, and words never fail him.

She hadn’t smiled, just watched him cautiously as he got out of his truck and approached. Buford couldn’t blame her. It was lonely here at this time of morning and he realized he must look suspicious. He had a light beard and mustache because he hadn’t shaved for several days. He’d thrown on his oldest and most comfortable pair of jeans and a ratty old Jimmy Buffet T-shirt to go fishing in. At least his black felt cowboy hat with the small colorful Navajo band was in good shape.

Jones Riddell—my father—was sporting a wiry beard that was too long and gray, and the mustache covered his upper lip, which drove my mother crazy—but she never said anything. She never made him change. I knew she let him be all the things she disliked so much so she could continue disliking him. The hair on his head was too long and his face was too tan and was getting wrinkled because he spent so much time outside in the sun working on his boats. My mother didn’t make him wear sunscreen because she had given up. If I walked out to the road to get the newspaper from the box, my mother made me put on sunscreen, but not my dad. She had given up on him altogether.

Truly God is the best of creators. He designed my physical face with so much care and a little touch of makeup in the form of a beard and mustaches.

thought you said you just came last night?” And the minute she says it, that particular choice of words, I can tell exactly what Grant’s thinking. His stoic expression cracks for just a moment as the tiniest smirk quirks the mustache that stands out thicker from the scruff along his beard. And I’m realizing really fucking quickly that Grant Fox is not just attractive. No, this guy is ruggedly handsome. Tall and built. Thick, dark brown hair long enough to thread through fingers and grip along the top. Hazel eyes shining with colors that make them pretty as they dance around my face. “That true, honey? Did you just come last night?” “Sure did,” I quip right back without missing a beat. “Not that it’s any of your business.” “Honey? What did I miss?” Lincoln asks his brother. The glare I’m trying to muster turns into a staring contest that, if I’m not careful, I might lose. He keeps his eyes trained on me while he answers his brother. “She was wandering around the back of the main house in one of Ace’s t-shirts. No pants. Thought she was still drunk or lost.” My hands ball up into fists and a full-body flash of heat flushes my face, staining my cheeks and up my neck too. “I was neither of those, fuck you very much.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. He usually doesn’t like repeats.” Hadley barks out a laugh and slings her arm around my shoulders. “Well, it looks like you might be seeing even more of her since she just moved into the cottage across from your place.” The speed at which his eyebrows raise and lips part is priceless. I smile with satisfaction. Lincoln leans closer and quietly asks, “That true? You and Ace?

In the end, even the other boys ddn't want it to be over - for two weeks they smoked, flirted, and drank, away from the eyes of their parents. And they learned how to do things. That country, with its chronic breakdowns and shortages, made resourceful improvisers out of the clumsiest hands. A quarter of a century later, at family gatherings in San Francisco and Omaha and Chicago and New Jersey and Brooklyn, we children had to marvel at the hands of our fathers: small, rough with work - sometimes cracked with it - the thumbs squat and broad. Whether molecular biologists, programmers, or taxi drivers, they could dismantle radios, singe potatoes in firepits, swim to the other side of the lake - oh, how these tense men untensed at the sight of a rural body of water - get a chandelier to hang from the ceiling, and strum a guitar. They still worse the mustaches and trimmed beards of their youth, and they were beyond the reach of American fashion. To us, their Americanized children, these men were rigid, frightened, and withdrawn. But you had to love their hands.

Beard with no mustache. What the fuck leads a man to make that choice?

That was…” I let out a laugh because words are not going to be my strength right now. “Delicious,” he says, smiling as he stares up at me from his knees. His face still hovers between my legs with my arousal smeared along his lips and mustache. Lowering my legs from his grip, he allows my feet to fully meet the ground. “I thought you were sexy before, but seeing you like this, with the smell of you on my beard and the taste of you in my mouth…” He rests his chin on my thigh, a glazed-over look in his half-lidded eyes. “How am I not supposed to fall in love with you now?