Curly Hair Day Quotes

Professor Langdon,' called a young man with curly hair in the back row, 'if Masonry is not a secret society, not a corporation, and not a religion, then what is it?' 'Well, if you were to ask a Mason, he would offer the following definition: Masonry is a system of morality, veiled in allegory and illustrated by symbols.' 'Sounds to me like a euphemism for "freaky cult." ' 'Freaky, you say?' 'Hell yes!' the kid said, standing up. 'I heard what they do inside those secret buildings! Weird candlelight rituals with coffins, and nooses, and drinking wine out of skulls. Now that's freaky!' Langdon scanned the class. 'Does that sound freaky to anyone else?' 'Yes!' they all chimed in. Langdon feigned a sad sigh. 'Too bad. If that's too freaky for you, then I know you'll never want to join my cult.' Silence settled over the room. The student from the Women's Center looked uneasy. 'You're in a cult?' Langdon nodded and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'Don't tell anyone, but on the pagan day of the sun god Ra, I kneel at the foot of an ancient instrument of torture and consume ritualistic symbols of blood and flesh.' The class looked horrified. Langdon shrugged. 'And if any of you care to join me, come to the Harvard chapel on Sunday, kneel beneath the crucifix, and take Holy Communion.' The classroom remained silent. Langdon winked. 'Open your minds, my friends. We all fear what we do not understand.

[Lily] "Petunia's hair is too curly to braid," She said conversationally. Oliver wasn't sure why, but that was what finally made him blush.

What the hell," I said, pushing off the wall, ready to take off the head of whatever stupid salesperson had decided to get cozy with me. My elbow was still buzzing, and I could feel a hot flush creeping up my neck: bad signs. I knew my temper. I turned my head and saw it wasn't a salesman at all. It was a guy with black curly hair, around my age, wearing a bright orange T-shirt. And for some reason he was smiling. "Hey there," he said cheerfully. "How's it going?" "What is your problem?" I snapped, rubbing my elbow. "Problem?" "You just slammed me into the wall, asshole." He blinked. "Goodness," he said finally. "Such language." I just looked at him. Wrong day, buddy, I thought. You caught me on the wrong day. "The thing is," he said, as if we'd been discussing the weather or world politics, "I saw you out in the showroom. I was over by the tire display?" I was sure I was glaring at him. But he kept talking. "I just thought to myself, all of a sudden, that we had something in common. A natural chemistry, if you will. And I had a feeling that something big was going to happen. To both of us. That we were, in fact, meant to be together." "You got all this," I said, clarifying, "at the tire display?" "You didn't feel it?" he asked. "No. I did, however, feel you slamming me into the wall," I said evenly. "That," he said, lowering his voice and leaning closer to me, "was an accident. An oversight. Just an unfortunate result of the enthusiasm I felt knowing I was about to talk to you.

I’ve always seen white picket fences in your eyes when you look at me. I was positive I wasn’t that guy. I was wrong. One of these days, when you’re ready, I’ll give that dream to you. And you’re going to give me a gorgeous little girl or two with your dark curly hair and smiles that slay me.

Chief Autumn Long, with her striking multicolored eyes and dark, curly hair, possessed the fiery spirit of a survivor. Yeah...he recognized a kindred spirit when he saw one.

Dr. Bar David?” A young man with black eyes and curly hair came toward him. Carrying a digital recorder. He looked familiar. “Richard Falco, North Richardson High. I took algebra and Calc I from you.” “Oh, yes, of course. Good to see you.” “I’m now reporting for Anchor Media. Just started a couple of months ago.” David started walking away. “Good for you. What a good course of action.” “Listen, I need to get a couple of quotes anyway. I wonder if—Oh, wait! I’m so sorry. You were at the North Richardson school shooting, five years ago.” David nodded. And began to panic. “That’s why you’re here, right?” the stupid student asked. “Protesting gun laws?” “I really need to be going, now. Good luck with your interviews.” Hyperventilating. Richard grabbed David’s shoulder. “But Dr. Bar David. Your story, tragic as it is, ends up being the reason for this whole public gun melting, right? A few words from you about—” David lost it. “Listen! My whole life changed that day. When that meshugener killed my entire family, my wife and my son, in an instant! With a gun he purchased the week before!” David grabbed the kid’s throat. “I do not want to talk about it. Don’t mention me in your article. I will sue you! Leave me alone.” Richard swallowed and nodded, fast. “Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry—” David started shouting, “The bullets! The bullets! The bullets!” His head pounded. His ears roared.

Hi there, cutie." Ash turned his head to find an extremely attractive college student by his side. With black curly hair, she was dressed in jeans and a tight green top that displayed her curves to perfection. "Hi." "You want to go inside for a drink? It's on me." Ash paused as he saw her past, present, and future simultaneously in his mind. Her name was Tracy Phillips. A political science major, she was going to end up at Harvard Med School and then be one of the leading researchers to help isolate a mutated genome that the human race didn't even know existed yet. The discovery of that genome would save the life of her youngest daughter and cause her daughter to go on to medical school herself. That daughter, with the help and guidance of her mother, would one day lobby for medical reforms that would change the way the medical world and governments treated health care. The two of them would shape generations of doctors and save thousands of lives by allowing people to have groundbreaking medical treatments that they wouldn't have otherwise been able to afford. And right now, all Tracy could think about was how cute his ass was in leather pants, and how much she'd like to peel them off him. In a few seconds, she'd head into the coffee shop and meet a waitress named Gina Torres. Gina's dream was to go to college herself to be a doctor and save the lives of the working poor who couldn't afford health care, but because of family problems she wasn't able to take classes this year. Still Gina would tell Tracy how she planned to go next year on a scholarship. Late tonight, after most of the college students were headed off, the two of them would be chatting about Gina's plans and dreams. And a month from now, Gina would be dead from a freak car accident that Tracy would see on the news. That one tragic event combined with the happenstance meeting tonight would lead Tracy to her destiny. In one instant, she'd realize how shallow her life had been, and she'd seek to change that and be more aware of the people around her and of their needs. Her youngest daughter would be named Gina Tory in honor of the Gina who was currently busy wiping down tables while she imagined a better life for everyone. So in effect, Gina would achieve her dream. By dying she'd save thousands of lives and she'd bring health care to those who couldn't afford it... The human race was an amazing thing. So few people ever realized just how many lives they inadvertently touched. How the right or wrong word spoken casually could empower or destroy another's life. If Ash were to accept Tracy's invitation for coffee, her destiny would be changed and she would end up working as a well-paid bank officer. She'd decide that marriage wasn't for her and go on to live her life with a partner and never have children. Everything would change. All the lives that would have been saved would be lost. And knowing the nuance of every word spoken and every gesture made was the heaviest of all the burdens Ash carried. Smiling gently, he shook his head. "Thanks for asking, but I have to head off. You have a good night." She gave him a hot once-over. "Okay, but if you change your mind, I'll be in here studying for the next few hours." Ash watched as she left him and entered the shop. She set her backpack down at a table and started unpacking her books. Sighing from exhaustion, Gina grabbed a glass of water and made her way over to her... And as he observed them through the painted glass, the two women struck up a conversation and set their destined futures into motion. His heart heavy, he glanced in the direction Cael had vanished and hated the future that awaited his friend. But it was Cael's destiny. His fate... "Imora thea mi savur," Ash whispered under his breath in Atlantean. God save me from love.

A curly-haired third-year Hufflepuff girl to whom Harry had never spoken in his life asked him to go to the ball with her the very next day. Harry was so taken aback he said no before he’d even stopped to consider the matter. The girl walked off looking rather hurt,

One day coming up Market he caught sight of a crowd among which the maddest man of God yet seen had appeared electrically out of the carbonic fog. He was some two thirds of a man tall and heavily set and red all over, this preacher. He had red curly hair on the back of his balding and boiled looking head and his skin was pale red and splotched with huge bloodcolored freckles and he was delivering the word in such fashion as even the oldest codgers on this street long jaded to the crop with crazed gospelarity could scarcely credit.

Tameka stared intently at the poorly lit bathroom mirror as she continued to pick confetti out of her long, giant mass of curly hair. “Thank you fellow seniors for ruining what was a good hair day,” Meka said to no one in particular as she continued to finger comb the paper-enthusiasm out of her brunette locks.

JULIAN MCMAHON FROM THE TRUST was waiting for me in reception. He had a big build, curly ginger hair, and a fondness for phrases such as between you and me or at the end of the day or the bottom line, which frequently popped up in his conversation, often in the same sentence. He was essentially a benign figure—the friendly face of the Trust. He wanted

Emily could hardly believe her luck. She had gotten the job! She gazed at the gray envelope containing the contract. She was so happy she almost jumped up and down like a little girl. She was a pert and pretty young woman with deep brown eyes and curly, dark hair. Even on a normal day, Emily’s smile and warmth could light up a small room; today she was positively radiant.

Susan Baker and the Anne Shirley of other days saw her coming, as they sat on the big veranda at Ingleside, enjoying the charm of the cat's light, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples, and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing against the old, mellow, red brick wall of the lawn. Anne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped over her knee, looking, in the kind dusk, as girlish as a mother of many has any right to be; and the beautiful gray-green eyes, gazing down the harbour road, were as full of unquenchable sparkle and dream as ever. Behind her, in the hammock, Rilla Blythe was curled up, a fat, roly-poly little creature of six years, the youngest of the Ingleside children. She had curly red hair and hazel eyes that were now buttoned up after the funny, wrinkled fashion in which Rilla always

When Alice was young, she had no idea what a jag even was. In those early days of their love affair, Alice found Ted’s rogue demeanor attractive. He was a Snow. But he was a rebel. He stood up to his stern father, and no one in the Snow family did that. The Snows were all too afraid of losing their entitlements. Ted had a relaxed swagger in his walk. Alice loved his confidence, the fashion of his easy laughter. She had no idea, not even a suspicion, that it was drink that fueled his swagger as well as his gumption. He was almost always drunk. But she was a teenager and a dreamer, and she loved his seeming fearlessness. He was handsome as well, with soft eyes that had a happy mischief to them. His thick, curly hair bounced as he swaggered. He was a picture. She thought he was hardy and strong, but it was the heat of the alcohol that made his cheeks flush apple red. He appeared to be the picture of health, but indeed, he wasn’t. He never was.

He got into the tub and ran a little cold water. Then he lowered his thin, hairy body into the just-right warmth and stared at the interstices between the tiles. Sadness--he had experienced that emotion ten thousand times. As exhalation is to inhalation, he thought of it as the return from each thrust of happiness. Lazily soaping himself, he gave examples. When he was five and Irwin eight, their father had breezed into town with a snowstorm and come to see them where they lived with their grandparents in the small Connecticut city. Their father had been a vagabond salesman and was considered a bum by people who should know. But he had come into the closed, heated house with all the gimcrack and untouchable junk behind glass and he had smelled of cold air and had had snow in his curly black hair. He had raved about the world he lived in, while the old people, his father and mother, had clucked sadly in the shadows. And then he had wakened the boys in the night and forced them out into the yard to worship the swirling wet flakes, to dance around with their hands joined, shrieking at the snow-laden branches. Later, they had gone in to sleep with hearts slowly returning to bearable beatings. Great flowering things had opened and closed in Norman's head, and the resonance of the wild man's voice had squeezed a sweet, tart juice through his heart. But then he had wakened to a gray day with his father gone and the world walking gingerly over the somber crust of dead-looking snow. It had taken him some time to get back to his usual equanimity. He slid down in the warm, foamy water until just his face and his knobby white knees were exposed. Once he had read Wuthering Heights over a weekend and gone to school susceptible to any heroine, only to have the girl who sat in front of him, whom he had admired for some months, emit a loud fart which had murdered him in a small way and kept him from speaking a word to anyone the whole week following. He had laughed at a very funny joke about a Negro when Irwin told it at a party, and then the following day had seen some white men lightly kicking a Negro man in the pants, and temporarily he had questioned laughter altogether. He had gone to several universities with the vague exaltation of Old Man Axelrod and had found only curves and credits. He had become drunk on the idea of God and found only theology. He had risen several times on the subtle and powerful wings of lust, expectant of magnificence, achieving only discharge. A few times he had extended friendship with palpitating hope, only to find that no one quite knew what he had in mind. His solitude now was the result of his metabolism, that constant breathing in of joy and exhalation of sadness. He had come to take shallower breaths, and the two had become mercifully mixed into melancholy contentment. He wondered how pain would breach that low-level strength. "I'm a small man of definite limitations," he declared to himself, and relaxed in the admission.

In a far-off country there was once a little girl who was called Silver-hair, because her curly hair shone brightly. She was a sad romp, and so restless that she could not be kept quiet at home, but must needs run out and away, without leave. One day she started off into a wood to gather wild flowers, and into the fields to chase butterflies. She ran here and she ran there, and went so far, at last, that she found herself in a lonely place, where she saw a snug little house, in which three bears lived; but they were not then at home. The door was ajar, and Silver-hair pushed it open and found the place to be quite empty, so she made up her mind to go in boldly, and look all about the place, little thinking what sort of people lived there. Now the three bears had gone out to walk a little before this. They were the Big Bear, and the Middle-sized Bear, and the Little Bear; but they had left their porridge on the table to cool. So when Silver-hair came into the kitchen, she saw the three bowls of porridge. She tasted the largest bowl, which belonged to the Big Bear, and found it too cold; then she tasted the middle-sized bowl, which belonged to the Middle-sized Bear, and found it too hot; then she tasted the smallest bowl, which belonged to the Little Bear, and it was just right, and she ate it all. She went into the parlour, and there were three chairs. She tried the biggest chair, which belonged to the Big Bear, and found it too high; then she tried the middle-sized chair, which belonged to the Middle-sized Bear, and she found it too broad; then she tried the little chair, which belonged to the Little Bear, and found it just right, but she sat in it so hard that she broke it. Now Silver-hair was by this time very tired, and she went upstairs to the chamber, and there she found three beds. She tried the largest bed, which belonged to the Big Bear, and found it too soft; then she tried the middle-sized bed, which belonged to the Middle-sized Bear, and she found it too hard; then she tried the smallest bed, which belonged to the Little Bear, and found it just right, so she lay down upon it, and fell fast asleep. While Silver-hair was lying fast asleep, the three bears came home from their walk. They came into the kitchen, to get their porridge, but when the Big Bear went to his, he growled out: “SOMEBODY HAS BEEN TASTING MY PORRIDGE!” and the Middle-sized Bear looked into his bowl, and said: “Somebody Has Been Tasting My Porridge!” and the Little Bear piped: “Somebody has tasted my porridge and eaten it all up!” Then they went into the parlour, and the Big Bear growled: “SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR!” and the Middle-sized Bear said: “Somebody Has Been Sitting In My Chair!” and the Little Bear piped: “Somebody has been sitting in my chair, and has broken it all to pieces!” So they went upstairs into the chamber, and the Big Bear growled: “SOMEBODY HAS BEEN TUMBLING MY BED!” and the Middle-sized Bear said: “Somebody Has Been Tumbling My Bed!” and the little Bear piped: “Somebody has been tumbling my bed, and here she is!” At that, Silver-hair woke in a fright, and jumped out of the window and ran away as fast as her legs could carry her, and never went near the Three Bears’ snug little house again.

You’re going to be walking along on the street one of these days, and suddenly there’s going to be a light over there. You’re going to look across the street, and on the corner over there, God is going to be standing right there, and you’re going to know it’s God because he’s going to have huge curly hair that sticks through his halo like Jesus, and he’s got little slitty eyes like Buddha, and he’s got a lot of swords in his belt like Mohammed. And he’s saying, “Come to me. Oh, come to me. I will have muses say in your ear that you will be the greatest writer ever, you will be better than Shakespeare. Come to me, they will have melon breasts and little blackberry nipples. Come to me, all you have to do is sing my praises.” Your job is to say, “Fuck you, God! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” Because nobody else is going to say it. Our politicians aren’t going to say it. Nobody but the writer is going to say it. There’s a time in history when it’s time to praise God, but now is not the time. Now is the time to say, “Fuck you, God, and the Old Testament you rode in on. I don’t care who your daddy was. Fuck you!

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.

It’s not my fault. So you can’t blame me. I didn’t do it and have no idea how it happened. It didn’t take more than an hour after they pulled her out from between my legs to realize something was wrong. Really wrong. She was so black she scared me. Midnight black, Sudanese black. I’m light-skinned, with good hair, what we call high yellow, and so is Lula Ann’s father. Ain’t nobody in my family anywhere near that color. Tar is the closest I can think of yet her hair don’t go with the skin. It’s different—straight but curly like those naked tribes in Australia. You might think she’s a throwback, but throwback to what? You should’ve seen my grandmother; she passed for white and never said another word to any one of her children. Any letter she got from my mother or my aunts she sent right back, unopened. Finally they got the message of no message and let her be. Almost all mulatto types and quadroons did that back in the day—if they had the right kind of hair, that is. Can you imagine how many white folks have Negro blood running and hiding in their veins? Guess. Twenty percent, I heard. My own mother, Lula Mae, could have passed easy, but she chose not to. She told me the price she paid for that decision. When she and my father went to the courthouse to get married there were two Bibles and they had to put their hands on the one reserved for Negroes. The other one was for white people’s hands.

ketchup sandwich. Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got frustrated. He must’ve been held back several grades, because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin. On top of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from PE for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don’t let that fool you. You should’ve seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria. Anyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwich that stuck in his curly brown hair, and she knew I couldn’t do anything back to her because I was already on probation. The headmaster had threatened me with death-by-in-school-suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip. ‘I’m going to kill her,’ I mumbled.

Change Your Look With These Top Notch Fashion Tips In fashion, there aren't any set rules. There is no one right way to be fashionable. Read a lot of different sources and then take what you've learned, pick it apart and use the tips that are best for you. Continue reading to learn great advice that you can tailor to your own wants and needs. If you like a shirt or skirt think about getting it in more than one color. Because clothes come in so many varying cuts and styles, you're likely find it difficult to find clothes that fit well for your body type. When you do just get more than one so that you can feel great more often. If you have thick or very curly hair, using a gel product will help you to create the style you desire. Work the product into towel-dried hair and then style it as you want. You can allow it to dry naturally, or use a hair drier. This is especially helpful in humid weather. In today's business world, it is imperative that men be well dressed. Therefore, it is essential to shop for top drawer clothing when buying clothes for your next interview. To begin your search, look through today's business magazines to ensure your wardrobe matches the top executives. Look for whether men are wearing cuffed pants or hemmed pants, ties with designs or solid ties as well as what type of shoe is currently in style. Skimpy tops are comfortable to wear in hot weather, but be careful if you are a big busted gal. Your figure needs good support, and you will feel more secure if you wear a sports bra under a lightweight top that has skinny straps and no shape of its own. Don't overstock your beauty kit with makeup. Just choose a few colors that match the season. Consider your needs for day and evening applications. Makeup can go bad if it's opened, just like other products. Bacteria can build on it, too. Have yourself professionally fitted for a bra. An ill-fitting brassiere is not only unflattering, but it affects how your clothing fits. Once you know your true size, buy a few bras in different styles and cuts. A plunge or demi-cup bra, a strapless bra, and a convertible bra give you versatile options. The thing about fashion is that it's a very easy topic once you get to know a little bit about it. Use the ideas you like and ignore the rest. It's okay not to follow every trend. Breaking away from the trends is better if you desire to be unique.

Susan Stamberg from NPR, with her wonderfully curly hair and an enormous grin, walked up to Mom carrying her ubiquitous microphone. “How does this feel, Ann?” she shouted above the screaming delegates. Mom was not a sentimental person; life hadn’t afforded her that luxury. But at that moment she was overcome, teary-eyed, as Ferraro’s name was announced over the speakers. “I wasn’t sure I would ever live to see this day,” she said. “Finally, one of us.

Some people smoked when they were upset, some did yoga, or drank, or paced, or picked fights, or counted to one hundred. Georgia cooked. As a small girl growing up in Massachusetts, she'd spent most of her time in her grandmother's kitchen, watching wide-eyed as Grammy kneaded the dough for her famous pumpernickel bread, sliced up parsnips and turnips for her world-class pot roast, or, if she was feeling exotic, butterflied shrimp for her delicious Thai basil seafood. A big-boned woman of solid peasant stock, as she herself used to say, Grammy moved around the cramped kitchen with grace and efficiency, her curly gray hair twisted into a low bun. Humming pop songs from the forties, her cheeks a pleasing pink, she turned out dish after fabulous dish from the cranky Tappan stove she refused to replace. Those times with Grammy were the happiest Georgia could remember. It had been almost a year since she died, and not a day passed that Georgia didn't miss her. She pulled out half a dozen eggs, sliced supermarket Swiss and some bacon from the double-width Sub-Zero. A quick scan of the spice rack yielded a lifetime supply of Old Bay seasoning, three different kinds of peppercorns, and 'sel de mer' from France's Brittany coast. People's pantries were as perplexing as their lives.

The second brother, Seriosha, had dark curly hair, a turned-up, strongly pronounced nose, very bright red lips (which, never being quite shut, showed a row of white teeth), beautiful dark-blue eyes, and an uncommonly bold expression of face. He never smiled but was either wholly serious or laughing a clear, merry, agreeable laugh. His striking good looks had captivated me from the first, and I felt an irresistible attraction towards him. Only to see him filled me with pleasure, and at one time my whole mental faculties used to be concentrated in the wish that I might do so. If three or four days passed without my seeing him I felt listless and ready to cry. Awake or asleep, I was forever dreaming of him. On going to bed I used to see him in my dreams, and when I had shut my eyes and called up a picture of him I hugged the vision as my choicest delight. So much store did I set upon this feeling for my friend that I never mentioned it to any one. Nevertheless, it must have annoyed him to see my admiring eyes constantly fixed upon him, or else he must have felt no reciprocal attraction, for he always preferred to play and talk with Woloda.

the next stop, this really annoying girl in my class named Andrea who thinks she knows everything got on the bus with curly brown hair. Well, the bus didn’t have curly brown hair. Andrea did. “Bingle boo, Andrea!” said Mrs. Kormel. “Bingle boo,” Andrea said. “I’ll go limpus kidoodle now.” What a brownnoser! Andrea plopped her dumb self down in the seat right in front of me, like always. “Good morning, Arlo,” she said. I hate her. Andrea’s mother found out that A.J. stands for Arlo Jervis, so Andrea went and told everybody. It was the worst day of my life. I thought I was gonna die. I wanted to switch schools or move to Antarctica and go live with the penguins, but my mom wouldn’t let me. Penguins are cool. “Are you boys ready for the big spelling test this afternoon?” Andrea asked. Oh no. I forgot all about the big dumb spelling test! How can I be expected to remember stuff over the weekend? Weekends are for having fun, not for studying for tests. I hate spelling. “Do you know how to spell ‘spelling,’ A.J.?” asked Andrea. “Sure,” I said. “I-H-A-T-E-Y-O-U.” Michael and Ryan laughed.

Lissy McIntyre sat on the side of the old sailing ship as it rounded the point into Butterfly Bay, curly, sun-streaked strands of auburn hair pushed across her face by the breeze. She imagined the reaction of her history colleagues at the university if they could see Dr. McIntyre in backpacker mode. The days spent basking in the warmth around the pool at Hamilton Island over the last week had made her almost forget it was winter back home on the New England tablelands of Australia.

A blonde went to an appliance store sale and found a bargain. “I would like to buy this TV,” she told the salesman. “Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes,” he replied. She hurried home and dyed her hair, then came back and again told the salesman, “I would like to buy this TV.” “Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes,” he replied. “Darn, he recognized me,” she thought. She went for a complete disguise this time: a brown curly wig, big baggy clothes, and big sunglasses. Then she waited a few days before she approached the salesman again and said, “I would like to buy this TV.” “Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes,” he replied. Frustrated, she exclaimed, “How do you know I’m a blonde?” “Because that’s a microwave,” he replied.

My hair was neither straight nor curly and seemed to change its personality based on an unpredictable number of factors, from the day of the week to the weather to the way I slept the night before.

She’s halfway across the linoleum, menu in hand, when she notes the man sitting at her table. He sits with his head bowed, focused on his hands clasped in front of him. Golden afternoon sunlight kisses his skin, the line of a tattoo barely visible above his collarbones. His profile is all sharp lines, bladed from the bridge of his nose all the way through to his jaw—the bone structure of a Grecian statue. His dark curly hair is pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck. Unfairly pretty, she thinks. Suddenly, she’s conscious that she’s been working all day, sweat wicking through her shirt, that she smells like stale coffee, and that there’s an unidentifiable stain—probably jam—just underneath her collar. The world is desperately cruel sometimes.

Hello there,” I say, trying to pitch my voice into the matter-of-fact tone that Rachel uses so well. “Can I help you with anything?” “Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” he says, sounding as old as he looks. “Whatcha doin’ in these parts on your own?” I ignore the compliment. I don’t like it, but there’s a good chance he means well. I don’t consider myself a “pretty little thing.” I’m thirty-three, and I suppose I’m attractive enough, but I’m not nearly as pretty as some of my friends. Rachel. Olivia. Layne. They’re all genuinely beautiful. There’s nothing in the world wrong with the way I look. I’m medium height with a fit, curvy figure. My eyes are a nice blue, and Mack used to say that my smile was like the sun coming out. My hair is long and curly, but at the moment it’s braided tightly and wound around my head to keep it out of the way. And I’m wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and a slightly too-big jacket that hides any hint of my figure. So his words don’t ring true to me. They raise the hair on the back of my neck. I give him a polite smile and keep my distance. “I’ve got somewhere to be, so if you’re all right, I’ll be on my way. Have a nice day.” No use to be unnecessarily confrontational. Not everyone is mean and violent, although a much larger percentage of people are than I ever would have believed before Impact. Back then, it was only my husband who might hit me.

A middle-aged woman stands behind the table. She has curly black hair and olive skin. Her features are stern, so angular they almost make her unattractive, but not quite. Tobias clutches my hand. At that moment I realize that he and the woman have the same nose--hooked, a little too big on her face but the right size on his. They also have the same strong jaw, distinct chin, spare upper lip, stick-out ears. Only her eyes are different--instead of blue, they are so dark they look black. “Evelyn,” he says, his voice shaking a little. Evelyn was the name of Marcus’s wife and Tobias’s mother. My grip on Tobias’s hand loosens. Just days ago I was remembering her funeral. Her funeral. And now she stands in front of me, her eyes colder than the eyes of any Abnegation woman I’ve ever seen. “Hello.” She walks around the table, surveying him. “You look older.” “Yes, well. The passage of time tends to do that to a person.” He already knew she was alive. How long ago did he find out? She smiles. “So you’ve finally come--” “Not for the reason you think,” he interrupts her. “We were running from Erudite, and the only chance of escape we had required me to tell your poorly armed lackeys my name.

When he got a good look at her, though, he found himself in the unusual position of having completely lost the ability to speak. Millie’s curly hair was tied back with a ribbon, making her appear remarkably young, while also lending her a rather flirty attitude. His gaze traveled from her hair to her face, and he felt his breath catch in his throat when he took note of the paleness of her skin, the panic in her eyes, and the slight trembling of her lips. A scratch marred her cheek, and as his gaze drifted down her person to make certain she wasn’t injured anywhere else, he blinked and blinked again. “Are you wearing . . . pants?” “Well, yes,” she said, right before she sent him the smallest of grins. The grin hit him like a fist to the stomach, and right there and then, in the midst of the tree, he finally realized what it was about his life that had changed. He, Everett Mulberry, one of society’s highest members, was attracted to Miss Millie Longfellow, the . . . nanny. It was completely unacceptable, ridiculous even, and almost seemed like a story Jane Austen would have penned. In fact . . . him being attracted to Millie was remarkably similar to the Pride and Prejudice story he hadn’t picked up for a day or two. And he realized now that he certainly wasn’t going to finish because . . . if Mr. Darcy did indeed end up with Miss Elizabeth, well, it was a silly fairy tale, plain and simple. He didn’t believe in fairy tales, even if Oliver seemed to have experienced one, but . . . no—he would not allow himself to think in that direction. The question that remained now, though, was how was he going to overcome this attraction—if that’s what he was actually feeling—for Millie? She

Mrs. Ruchet was a big, imposing woman with short, curly, blonde hair tangled wildly around her oval face. She spent most of her days sitting on her couch, her two huge legs propped on a dark green cushion in front of her, watching soap operas on television, all the while hating the actresses for being so thin.

I stood in a maze line formed by crushed-velvet ropes and waited my turn. It reminded me of visiting a bank in the days before ATMs. The woman in front of me sported a business suit—at midnight—and big enough bags under her eyes to be mistaken for a bellhop. Behind me, a man with curly hair and dark sweats whipped out a cell phone and started pressing buttons.

We walked the length of Jackson Square, stopping to look at the work of a couple of artists who'd set up their sidewalk shops for the day. "Look." Eugenie stopped in front of an acrylic painting of a mustached man with curly dark hair, hooded eyes, and a big hooked nose. He looked like he'd steal the hubcaps off your grandmother's Cadillac. "It's Jean Lafitte, our most famous pirate," the artist said. "He was quite a character." She had no idea. She also had badly missed the mark on his looks. His hair wasn't that curly, he'd been clean-shaven the whole time I'd known him, his nose was straight and in perfect proportion to the rest of his features, and he didn't have hooded black eyes. Still, he might find it entertaining. "How much?" I asked.

I have two sons. Jude is five, with dark, curly hair. He looks just like his mom. Moses is two, with bright eyes and a wide smile. I love watching my boys play together. They are never anxious. Never depressed. But every once in a while, they wake up in the middle of the night scared. Sometimes it’s a bad dream. Other times it’s a monster in the closet (that turns out to be a blanket). You know the drill. When they wake up crying, all they need to calm down is a minute or two in my arms. Once they feel that security—that safety, the fact that dad is present—they are fine. The implications are obvious. Jesus calls us to have faith like a child. I wonder if that means we need to trust God like my sons trust me. To climb up into his arms, take a deep breath, and know we are safe, as long as we are with him. I sleep much better these days. It still takes me a while to fall asleep at times. Like my boys, I still wake up with fears, concerns, thoughts that are out of control. My heart still picks up pace. My mind begins to race. But I’m learning to call out to God, to remember my place, and to take my thoughts captive. I’m learning to take a deep breath, to dwell on his scriptures, and to learn from my boys. After all, when was the last time you met a stressed-out five year old? I don’t think they exist. When was the last time you met a stressed-out child of God? They are all over the place.

He clicked through a dozen of them until he found a picture of a dark, curly haired woman, ample, smiling, appearing much younger than sixty, so familiar-looking that he was immediately attracted to her simply because he found familiarity, rare these days, so comforting. He opened her ad and realized he was staring at a picture of his wife,

Joss’s littlest child, a girl with her father’s curly hair, came bounding down the path toward them. “Papa, is Uncle Caleb really a damn Yankee?” she chirped. Joss didn’t so much as glance in Caleb’s direction. “Yes, Ellen,” he said gently. “He’s the damnedest Yankee I ever saw.” Caleb smiled. “You wouldn’t have Susannah and all these beautiful kids if I’d done what you told me to do that day,” he pointed out. “You’d be nothing but a pile of bones moldering in the brush somewhere.” Joss glowered at him. “I guess that’s so,” he conceded. “But don’t get the idea things are settled between us, little brother, because they aren’t. I’m still going to beat the living tar out of you the day your arm comes out of that sling.” This was the old Joss, the Joss whom Caleb remembered and loved. “Don’t be too confident, big brother,” he replied. “Just in case you haven’t noticed, I’m all grown up.” Lily

He tried to hide behind a bunch of feathers, but Nikulo stopped and glared at him. “Cowering already? You know you don’t have a chance of winning the Blood Dagger.”  The Blood Dagger competition. Talis thought of the sparring competition held once a year and froze, realizing he’d forgotten all about it. Wasn’t it only a few days away? With Mara injured, they had already moved the date, but Talis knew that House Lei and House Storm would never allow Talis and Mara to forfeit to the likes of Nikulo and Rikar, his sparring partner. Claiming rights to hold the Blood Dagger for a year meant far too much to the royal houses, especially since their house had lost claim to the victor’s rights over the last few years. Nikulo’s coffee-brown eyes sparkled as if he were eager to tell a new joke. He waddled close to Talis, holding a porcelain jar in one hand. He yanked up silk pants that kept falling below his protruding belly. He scratched his curly hair and released a smoky fart, blowing the fumes in Talis' direction. Talis coughed, retreating quickly. Nikulo never should have swallowed that last potion he concocted. All his farts smelled like sulfur and spoiled onions.  “Thanks for that, just what I needed.” Talis rubbed his stinging eyes. “What are you doing slumming in Fiskar’s Market? Finding more noxious ingredients for your potions?” Nikulo moved the jar away from Talis. “No… nothing of the sort.” He frowned and pursed his lips. “Why are you holding a feather?” “It’s

My mind wanders as I work, leaving me to wonder whether Adena is having any luck selling her clothes on the other end of the long street. I steal, she sews. And that’s been our lives for the past five years. I was barely thirteen and utterly alone in the world when Adena quite literally ran into me. Well, she phased right through me. I’ll never forget the look on the Imperial’s face as he sprinted after her, screaming about stolen pastries. And without a second thought, I didn’t hesitate before sticking my foot out into his path. As soon as I got a glimpse of the guard’s face meeting the pavement, I was chasing after the gangly, curly-haired girl who ran right through me. An uneasy alliance was born that day, one that was supposed to stay that way.

back and meet with the painters later to make sure they had all the correct colors. She prayed they’d have the right colors. It was too early in the job for her to have to do battle with Aidan Shaughnessy…again. * * * She’d worked at a feverish pace to stay on schedule, completely consumed with the need to make everything perfect on this job. By the end of the day, Zoe was exhausted, and she looked it. Martha happened to walk by her office and did a double take. “Good grief, Zoe, it’s only been a day. Surely it’s not all that bad!” Slouching in her seat, Zoe combed her mass of curly hair away from her face with her fingers and tugged as if to pull it out. “The man is infuriating. I’m second-, third-, and even fourth-guessing every single item I pick out for this house. It’s…it’s…” “Maddening?” Zoe nodded. Pulling up a chair, Martha sat and looked at Zoe with a reassuring smile. “You have to be confident in what you’re doing. I think men like Aidan Shaughnessy feed on other people’s weaknesses. If you go in there with confidence and present what you’ve done, he’s not going to give you a hard time.” “Are we sure about that?” Zoe asked. “Because it seems to me that I could get every single item he handpicked for this place and he’d still find a problem with something

least once a day someone said to her, ‘I wish I had curly hair,’ but Ronke knew better – curls meant frizz, knots and chaos. She pushed open the door and stepped out of suburban London and into downtown Lagos.

Endless Love! A beautiful, young, mountain girl who loved the sea, There she always longed to be, She dreamt of someday marrying a mariner, Then there would be just the sea and her sea smelling mariner, Years passed by and she grew prettier, And with every passing year her fondness for the sea grew deeper and deeper, On one sunny summer day, she found her mariner, She loved his smile, his curly hair, she loved him because he was just a mariner, They hugged, they kissed and they smiled, Life seemed perfect, as if exclusively for the two of them styled, They got married in the midst of summer flowers, she and the sea smelling mariner, Then both moved to live their lives together at the sea, the mountain girl and the mariner, In the evening the mariner’s return from work brought with him the sweet smelling sea, It was exactly the way the mountain girl always wanted it to be, The sea, the open skies, the ever moving waves and the lap of the mariner, Where she rested her head and smelled sea on the skin of the weary mariner, Who was never tired of the sea but only sometimes tired at the sea, For everyday it stared at him in million different ways and how he loved to see, The sunset, the sprightly fish and the winding shadows of the toiling mariner, Alas the mountain girl only fancied the sea and its traces in the mariner, And gradually she grew tired of the sea and its every memory, Of the mariner too, because he smelled of the sea and that left the mountain girl less merrier, The mountain girl only fancied what she ought to have loved- the sea and the mariner, For fascinations fade away, but the sea always stayed with the mariner, Now the girl loved to hate the sea, and how she despised it! And with it, the mariner too died at the sea, bit by bit. Everyday bit by bit, For the mariner loved the mountain girl just like the sea - the poor mariner, When he saw her love for the sea and him fading away it silently killed the mariner, The vast sea is still there and so is the majestic mountain, The girl has aged now and brimming with mariner’s love just like a perennial fountain, So every night when the tide is high, the sea silently welcomes the still young but long dead mariner, And his shadow gently descends upon the naked body of the time weary woman - the warm skin kissed by the cold shadow of the mariner, Now she smells just the mariner who infact was the sea and he always wanted to be her vast and beautiful sea, For this is who the mariner was and always wanted to be- the open and the endless sea, Sea of endless love and hope for the mountain girl, Where he would dive deep and retrieve only for her the rarest pearl, For he loved her true and endlessly under the vast sky, Alas the mountain girl took a while to realise that both the sea and the mountain shall always lie under the blue and sometimes dark sky, The dead mariner still loves to spread his shadow over her skin by and by, And silently whisper to her, “I love you more than the sea, the mountains and the never ending sky!

Her mom says they’re trying to find a rabbit, but they find a witch instead, with curly hair and tattoos of stars and not scary like Baba Yaga. Her name is Mina and she knows her mom from back in the day, and Bridge is impressed at how she is grubby and glamorous at the same time in a short black dress and big army boots with the laces undone so she might trip at any moment.

But when I landed in college, I noticed what looked like a gleaming. A goofy, doofy, curly-haired man with broad shoulders brushed by me in the hallway one day. He smelled like cinnamon. He had teddy-brown eyes and performed in the college’s improv group. He was the best one by far, made big gestures, made jokes from a place of kindness and whimsy, pulled ripples of laughter out of this cold, hard world. I used to sit in the audience and marvel. He seemed like an impossibility. It took years. Years of slowly befriending him through mutual friends. Years of calling into his late-night, freestyle-rap radio show, daring my tongue to try… to rhyme on the fly! I even joined the improv group. And eventually, one night I told him how I felt and instead of flinching away, as I had assumed he would, as the boys in the hallway had made it seem that he would, he kissed me. After graduating college, we moved in together, to a small one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn with a red Formica table and a great front stoop. I finagled my way into a job helping produce a radio program all about science and wonder. He was continuing with comedy—stand-up and improv and writing—and working as a yellow-cab driver to support himself. We stayed up late into the night, sipping beers on the stoop, talking about our days, turning awkward moments and missteps into jokes. I felt like I had found the thing I had thought could never exist. Refuge. It smelled like cinnamon and its walls were made of bad puns and cheap rhymes, piling higher and higher against the chill of the world. My head became full of visions for the future. The TV shows we would write, the tree houses we would build, the way the grass would curl between our toes as we chased our kids through the yard. Until, seven years into it, I toppled the whole thing. Late one night on a beach five hundred miles away from him, possessed by moonlight and red wine and the smell of a bonfire, I reached out for the bouncing blond girl I had been trying not to eye all night. She was wet from swimming; she was prickled in goose bumps, hundreds of goose bumps, that I wanted to press flat with my tongue. She smiled as I placed my hand on her waist, as I touched my lips to her neck. The stars wrapped around us. Her steam became mine. When I told the curly-haired man what I had done, he told me it was over.

Henry glances at his office door, and a moment later, a dark-skinned man in a rough coat enters, his cloud of curly hair pulled back into a knot at the nape of his neck. “Monty, why is there a skull with the . . .” He catches sight of me and breaks off, looking between us. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you had a meeting.” Henry—Monty—what?—sighs. I swear, even that small twitch is enough to make the dimples in both his cheeks pop out. I only inherited one from our father, but he appears to have the matching set. “Johanna sent it. I believe it’s meant to be some kind of present. Or possibly we are meant to keep it for her until she’s next in London. It’s always so hard to tell, and it has arrived so near to your birthday.” “I would imagine the latter.” The dark-skinned man takes a wide stride over the pile of papers I inadvertently scattered and extends a hand to me. He has a broad smile, which is deployed in full as he says, “Good day. I’m Percy Newton.

My mother cried every day, on a cue, as if someone tapped her on a shoulder and said "Go! Now!" She looked thin, and her hair looked disheveled, getting longer, flat on the top with curly remnants from a perm on each side. I didn't know what to say or do partially because she never tried to explain her sudden outbursts, so I thought she wanted us to leave her alone to mourn in peace.

just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. “However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I’m sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up. “Four to a tray — there is a large supply of pots here — compost in the sacks over there — and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it’s teething.” She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were joined at their tray by a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy Harry knew by sight but had

my dad lets me saw them in half or torture them with his power drill.” “I take mine out in the sun and melt their faces with a magnifying glass,” said Ryan. Michael and Ryan are weird. At the next stop, this really annoying girl in my class named Andrea who thinks she knows everything got on the bus with curly brown hair. Well, the bus didn’t have curly brown hair. Andrea did. “Bingle boo, Andrea!” said Mrs. Kormel. “Bingle boo,” Andrea said. “I’ll go limpus kidoodle now.” What a brownnoser! Andrea plopped her dumb self down in the seat right in front of me, like always. “Good morning, Arlo,” she said. I hate her. Andrea’s mother found out that A.J. stands for Arlo Jervis, so Andrea went and told everybody. It was the worst day of my life. I thought I was gonna die. I wanted to switch schools or move to Antarctica and go live with the penguins, but my mom wouldn’t let me. Penguins are cool.

I wish my dad was more like yours,” said Stephanie, twirling a strand of her curly red hair in her fingers. “Because your dad’s the best.” I catch a glimpse from the side of the house of my father emerging from the garage in his standard uniform of suit and tie, but before he gets into the awaiting Town Car, he turns and our eyes meet. He waves and blows me a kiss. I catch it in the air and press it onto my cheek. He flashes me one last smile and wave before ducking into the car. “Yeah. My dad’s the best,” I agree. And on that day, in that moment, for the first time in my life, I’d meant it.

Who?’ he asked, his eyes still going from detective to detective. ‘Ollie — the young boy with curly hair, came in here with a girl the same age — lopsided bob—’ Mary moved her hands by her ears to demonstrate the cut ‘—slim, pretty, green eyes, and—’  He nodded once. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know who you mean now, the ones on the needle, um…’ He stopped talking, not wanting to say another word in front of Jamie and Roper. ‘Go on,’ Mary urged. ‘You can tell them. Nothing’s going to happen to you.’ He exhaled and a waft of tomato flowed out from under his scraggly moustache. ‘They had a space down there. Nice tent, actually. Too nice, almost. New, like. She had it — brought it one day. They was in a tarp before, you know?’ Jamie nodded and Roper looked at her.  ‘Do you know if she’s still there?’ Mary asked. ‘Tent was still there s’morning. The girl…’ He shrugged and lifted the edge of his bowl, sipping the dregs out of the bottom. ‘Who knows. With the boy, least she had some protection, you know. Now, well, I don’t know who her friends are, you know?’ Jamie knew. ‘Thank you. And how do we get there? Can you show us?’ ‘Me walk up with two coppers? Nah. I can’t do that.’ ‘Listen, mate,’ Roper said with the lack of finesse he was known for. ‘This is an active murder investigation, alright? If you don’t—’ Jamie squeezed his arm and he stopped talking. She thought about the old flies and vinegar adage.  ‘Reggie?’ she said, trying to sound friendly. ‘Could you just tell us where it is?’ He was staring at Roper, who was pretty much glaring back, but eventually he turned to her. ‘Sure. Who am I to hold up a murder investigation?’ Back on the street with the directions etched in her mind, they headed for the bridge.

Can we come in, Miss Tramell?” Graves asked in a tone that made the question a demand. She’d tied her curly brown hair back and wore a jacket to cover her holstered gun. There was a satchel in her hand.

Every day is a new day and you’ve got to just go with the flow. Accepting yourself as you are and letting go of what society says you should be are first steps toward freeing yourself. “Free your hair and the rest will follow

Is the rift dividing them in fact a bottomless chasm; is that why such powerful turbulences have been released? And is it a rift between Black and White? Or Poor or Rich? Stranger and Friend? Or between those whose father's have died and those whose father's are still alive? Or those with curly hair and those with straight? Those who call their dinner fufu and those that call it stew? Or those who like to wear yellow, red, and green t-shirts and those who prefer neckties? Or those who like to drink water and those who prefer beer? Or between speakers of one language or another? How many borders exist within a single universe? Or, to ask it differently, what is the one true, crucial border? ... it's just a matter of a few pigments in the material that's known as skin in all the languages of the world, meaning that the violence on display here is not at all the harbinger of a storm in the center of the universe but is in fact due merely to an absurd misunderstanding that has been dividing humankind and preventing it from realizing how enormously long the lifespan of a planet is compared to the life and breath of any one human being. Whether you clothe your body in hand-me-down pants and jackets from a donation bin, brand-name sweater's, expensive or cheap dresses, or uniforms with a helmet and visor- underneath this clothing, every one of us is naked and must surely, let's hope, have taken pleasure in sunshine and wind, in water and snow, have eaten or drunk this and that tasty thing, perhaps even have loved someone and been loved in return before dying one day.

herself look perfect. Her long dark hair will be pulled into two tidy plaits and she will have tried on almost everything in her wardrobe before putting on her favourite floaty dress. I help Mum by laying the table. I get out the cereal and the milk and make everyone a glass of orange juice. Mum is in a rush as she needs to go to work soon. But Moz, Alice and I have all the time in the world. It’s the school holidays and the sun is shining. I have been up for hours. But unlike my sister, I haven't spent my time making myself look fancy. I'm wearing denim shorts and a faded t-shirt, my most comfy clothes. I've tied back my curly blond hair into a ponytail as best I can, but I know it’s still messy. Oh well. No, I've been up for hours using the computer, chatting to some of my friends on Facebook. I've got Facebook friends from all over the world. Whatever time of day it is there's always someone about for a chat. I can happily spend all day watching videos or playing games with my mates. Moz and Alice don't understand at all. That’s why my Facebook friends are so great. They really get me.