Dye My Hair Quotes

I’m not waiting until my hair turns white to become patient and wise. Nope, I’m dyeing my hair tonight.

You made me cut and dye my hair.” Surely he understands that we face greater problems? “I thought it would greatly improve your looks,” I snap. “Shorn hair is a sign of shame. You humiliate me greatly.” “I’ll light a candle tonight in honor of your dead tresses.

Believe it or not, some of us have piercings and tattoos and dye our hair because we think it looks pretty, not for any deep sociological reason. This isn't an act of protest against cultural or social repression. It's not a grand, deliberately defiant gesture against capitalists or feminists or any other social group. It's not even the fashion equivalent to sticking two fingers up at the world. The boring truth of it, Gabriel, is that I don't dress like this to hurt my parents or draw attention to myself or make a statement. I just do it because I think it looks nice. Disappointed?

So...have you ever thought about dyeing your hair punk-rocker-chick black? As I'm sure you've heard, I have a thing for brunettes and always avoid blondes." "I've heard. And no." "Too bad. Because you're making me rethink my stance about doing my friends' exes." I snorted, not even trying to hide my...incredulity? Surely I wasn't amused. "Your making me rethink my stance on cold-blooded homicide

Black Beauty" I paint my nails black, I dye my hair a darker shade of brown 'Cause you like your women Spanish, dark, strong and proud I paint the sky black You said if you could have your way You'd make a night time of today So it'd suit the mood of your soul Oh, what can I do? Nothing, my sparrow blue Oh, what can I do? Life is beautiful but you don't have a clue Sun and ocean blue Their magnificence, it don't make sense to you Black beauty, oh oh oh Black beauty, oh oh oh I paint the house black My wedding dress black leather too You have no room for light Love is lost on you I keep my lips red The same like cherries in the spring Darling, you can't let everything Seem so dark blue Oh, what can I do? To turn you on or get through to you Oh, what can I do? Life is beautiful but you don't have a clue Sun and ocean blue Their magnificence, it don't make sense to you Black beauty, oh oh oh Black beauty, oh oh oh Black beauty, ah ah Black beauty, ah ah Black beauty, ah ah ah ah Black beauty, baby Black beauty, baby Oh, what can I do? Life is beautiful but you don't have a clue Sun and ocean blue Their magnificence, it don't make sense to you Black beauty, oh oh oh Black beauty, oh oh oh Black beauty, oh oh oh Black beauty, oh oh oh

I suck thoughtfully on the word “temporary". It could be my time with him is as temporary as hair dye, or an adrenaline rush. I decide I’ll take either one.

We all grasp on to a single idea of ourselves, the way aging people dye their hair. It’s no matter that this dye doesn’t fool you. My lady, you don’t dye your hair to decieve other people, or to fool yourself, but rather to cheat your image in your mirror a little.

Then the two of us raise that baby with Twinkie power,” Daphne said stubbornly. “It can have two moms. Or just one. We can pitch-hit and switch out. I’ll put on some boring clothes and re-dye my hair and the kid will never suspect a thing.

So you do know!" I shouted. My phone lay there like a genie's bottle, inanimate and yet containing the ability to grant me wishes and knowledge. "Girl, spill before I come over and dye your hair a natural color.

I dye my jeans jet black once a week, but they never seem dark enough. I bleach my hair bright white twice a month but it never seems light enough. I drink two and a half bottles of champagne every night but I never seem drunk enough. And I know I’m not high enough until someone grabs my face to check my vision to see if I’m still responsive— And even then, I’m thinking to myself that I should probably do one more line, you know, just to be safe.

To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: HAPPY CHRISTMAS Have you gotten used to the time difference? Bloody hell,I can't sleep. I'd call,but I don't know if you're awake or doing the family thing or what. The bay fog is so thick that I can't see out my window.But if I could, I am quite certain I'd discover that I'm the only person alive in San Francisco. To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: I forgot to tell you. Yesterday I saw a guy wearing an Atlanta Film Festival shirt at the hospital.I asked if he knew you,but he didn't.I also met an enormous,hair man in a cheeky Mrs. Claus getup. he was handing out gifts to the cancer patients.Mum took the attached picture. Do I always look so startled? To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: Are you awake yet? Wake up.Wake up wake up wake up. To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: re: Are you awake yet? I'm awake! Seany started jumping on my bed,like,three hours ago. We've been opening presents and eating sugar cookies for breakfast. Dad gave me a gold ring shaped like a heart. "For Daddy's sweetheart," he said. As if I'm the type of girl who'd wear a heart-shaped ring. FROM HER FATHER. He gave Seany tons of Star Wars stuff and a rock polishing kit,and I'd much rather have those.I can't beleive Mom invited him here for Christmas. She says it's because their divorce is amicable (um,no) and Seany and I need a father figure in our lives,but all they ever do is fight.This morning it was about my hair.Dad wants me to dye it back, because he thinks I look like a "common prostitute," and Mom wants to re-bleach it.Like either of them has a say. Oops,gotta run.My grandparents just arrived,and Granddad is bellowing for his bonnie lass.That would be me. P.S. Love the picture.Mrs. Claus is totally checking out your butt. And it's Merry Christmas, weirdo. To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: HAHAHA@ Was it a PROMISE RING? Did your father give you a PROMISE RING? To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: Re: HAHAHA! I am so not responding to that.

As a matter of fact I'd had my hair dyed a marvelous shade of pale red so popular with Parisian tarts that season.

The way things are going, I wouldn't be surprised if pretty soon I start wearing ripped-up fishnet stockings and dyeing my hair black. Maybe I'll even start smoking and get my ears double-pierced or something. And then they'll make a TV movie about me and call it Royal Scandal. It will show me going up to Prince William and saying,'Who's the most popular young royal now, huh, punk?' and then headbutting him or something.

A stray thought that maybe I should run away to South America started to sound like a good idea. I could change my name to Nikki Shelverstien and dye my hair a rich dark brunette. I could be a maid at a high-class hotel and pretend I didn’t speak Spanish or English so everyone would leave me alone.

Nothing is so sad, in my opinion, as the devastation wrought by age. My poor friend. I have described him many times. Now to convey to you the difference. Crippled with arthritis, he propelled himself about in a wheelchair. His once plump frame had fallen in. He was a thin little man now. His face was lined and wrinkled. His moustache and hair, and hair, it is true, were still of a jet black colour, but candidly, though I would not for the world have hurt his feelings by saying so to him, this was a mistake. There comes a moment when hair dye is only too painfully obvious. There had been a time when I had been surprised to learn that the blackness of Poirot's hair came out of a bottle. But now the theatricality was apparent and merely created the impression that he wore a wig and had adorned his upper lip to amuse children!

At some point, to counter the list of the dead, I had begun keeping my own list of the living. It was something I noticed Len Fenerman did too. When he was off duty he would note the young girls and elderly women and every other female in the rainbow in between and count them among the things that sustained him. The young girl in the mall whose pale legs had grown too long for her now too-young dress and who had an aching vulnerability that went straight to both Len's and my own heart. Elderly women, wobbling with walkers, who insisted on dyeing their hair unnatural versions of the colors they had in youth. Middle-aged single mothers racing around in grocery stores while their children pulled bags of candy off the shelves. When I saw them, I took count. Living, breathing women. Sometimes I saw the wounded- those who had been beaten by husbands or raped by strangers, children raped by their fathers- and I would wish to intervene somehow. Len saw these wounded women all the time. They were regulars at the station, but even when he went somewhere outside his jurisdiction he could sense them when they came near. The wife in that bait-'n'-tackle shop had no bruises on her face but cowered like a dog and spoke in apologetic whispers. The girl he saw walk the road each time he went upstate to visit his sisters. As the years passed she'd grown leaner, the fat from her cheeks had drained, and sorrow had loaded her eyes in a way that made them hang heavy and hopeless inside her mallowed skin. When she was not there it worried him. When she was there it both depressed and revived him. ~Len Fenerman on stepping back/letting go/giving up pgs 271-272

If I stopped dyeing my hair everyone would know that my golden hair is actually gray, and my long American youth would be over—and then what?

I do not dye my hair black so as to be young again and sin again but because people dye their clothes black in mourning, so I have dyed my hair black, mourning for my old age.

I find the whole concept of being 'sexy' embarrasing and confusing. If it do an interview with photographs people desperately want to change me - dye my hair blonder, pluck my eyebrows, give me a fringe. Then there's the choice of clothes. I know everyone wants a picture of me in a mini-skirt. But that's not me. I feel uncomfortable. I'd never go out in a mini-skirt. It's nothing to do with protecting the Hermione image. I wouldn't do that. Personally, I don't actually think it's even that sexy. What's sexy about saying, 'I'm here with my boobs out and a short skirt, have a look at everything I've got?' My idea of sexy is that less is more. The less you reveal the more people can wonder.

Honestly, I'd rather be anywhere else. Even home, where my dad begins almost every conversation with, "You should lose the black clothes and wear something with color." Puh-lease. Like I want to look like every Barbie clone in Hell High, a.k.a. Oklahoma's insignificant Haloway High School. Ironically, Dad doesn't appreciate the bright blue streaks in my originally blond/now-dyed-black hair. Go figure. That's color, right?

I dreamed I stood upon a little hill, And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed Like a waste garden, flowering at its will With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed Black and unruffled; there were white lilies A few, and crocuses, and violets Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun. And there were curious flowers, before unknown, Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades Of Nature's willful moods; and here a one That had drunk in the transitory tone Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades Of grass that in an hundred springs had been Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars, And watered with the scented dew long cupped In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt, A grey stone wall. o'ergrown with velvet moss Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair. And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across The garden came a youth; one hand he raised To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes Were clear as crystal, naked all was he, White as the snow on pathless mountains frore, Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes A marble floor, his brow chalcedony. And he came near me, with his lips uncurled And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth, And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend, Come I will show thee shadows of the world And images of life. See from the South Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.' And lo! within the garden of my dream I saw two walking on a shining plain Of golden light. The one did joyous seem And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids And joyous love of comely girl and boy, His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy; And in his hand he held an ivory lute With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair, And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute, And round his neck three chains of roses were. But he that was his comrade walked aside; He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight, And yet again unclenched, and his head Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death. A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold With the device of a great snake, whose breath Was fiery flame: which when I did behold I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth, Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove These pleasent realms? I pray thee speak me sooth What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.' Then straight the first did turn himself to me And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame, But I am Love, and I was wont to be Alone in this fair garden, till he came Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.' Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will, I am the love that dare not speak its name.

Giveaway T-shirts stretched over monstrous beer bellies. Puffy NFL jackets and porky jowls. Granted, I'm in a bowling alley,but the differences between Americans and Parisians are shocking.I'm ashamed to see my country the way the French must see us. Couldn't these people have at least brushed their hair before leaving their houses? "I need a licorice rope," Cherrie announces. She marches toward the snack stand,and all I can think is these people are your future. The thought makes me a little happier. When she comes back,I inform her that just one bite of her Red Dye #40-infused snack could kill my brother. "God, morbid," she says. Which makes me think of St. Clair again.Because when I told him the same thing three months ago,instead of accusing me of morbidity,he asked with genuine curiosity, "Why?" Which is the polite thing to do when someone offers you such an interesting piece of conversation.

His thumb rubbed over her knee, and Priss wondered if he was aware of doing it, if he did it on purpose to turn her on, or if it was extension of the thoughts she saw flickering across his face. “Trace . . .” “It occurs to me that I didn’t see a single freckle on you. Not on your face.” He gave her a quick, level look. “And not on your body.” “Yeah, so?” “That’s kind of curious, don’t you think, given the color of your hair?” Priss lifted his hand and dropped it over next to him. “Okay, first off, hands to yourself. Got it?” He said nothing, but she saw the corner of his mouth tilt up in the slightest of smiles. “Secondly, did you happen to notice that my brows and lashes are a darker brown without a hint of red?” “Meaning?” “Meaning I’m not like other redheads who are . . .” Her face heated. “Red all over.” “Yeah?” He glanced at her lap meaningfully. “Do tell.” Priss punched him in the shoulder. “I don’t like what you’re thinking.” “You don’t know what I’m thinking.” And with another provoking grin, “Do you?” Like she’d say it out loud? No way. Priss crossed her arms. “If you were hinting that you think I dye my hair, I don’t. Everything on me is natural.” “We’ll see.” “No, we will not see a damn thing!” Under his breath, Trace said, “I damn near saw today. If I’d moved a foot closer for a better look—” “Stop it!” Priss felt heat throbbing in her face, and she hated it. “And that reminds me. I want you to delete that damned picture.” “Not a chance. Seeing you in that getup was a trophy moment for me.

For Anne Gregory "Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair." "But I can get a hair-dye And set such colour there, Brown, or black, or carrot, That young men in despair May love me for myself alone And not my yellow hair." "I heard an old religious man But yesternight declare That he had found a text to prove That only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

I had this dream, see, where I saw the whole world melt. I was standing on La Cienega and from there I could see the whole world and it was melting and it was just so strong and realistic like. And so I thought, Well, if this dream comes true, how can I stop it, you know? How can I change things, you know? So I thought if I, like pierced my ear or something, like alter my physical image, dye my hair, the world wouldn't melt. So I dyed my hair and this pink lasts. I like it. It lasts. I don't feel like the world is gonna melt anymore.

[...]You can take the pink hair dye out of the girl, but you never lose those roots." I took another sip of the martini. "You don't know me." At the end of the bar, the other customer lifted his face to Peter Jennings and smiled. "Maybe," Seven said, "but neither do you.

I’m here because I spend all of my spare time watching you and wanting to be like you but you’re mean to me and won’t be my best friend forever like I sooo wish you would. So I decided to become you instead. I’m starting off by creeping up here to seduce your precious Darius and screw him senseless just to make you cry. Then I’m going to dye my hair the cheapest, shittiest shade of red I can find and finally I’ll become the head cheerleader because I fucking love being cheery. Mostly I’m going to do it because I’m obsessed with you but partly because I’m a psycho bitch who just wants to ruin your life.

My grandfather was having a bad day. Most of us were gathered in the library when he came down the stairs, his mustache and eyebrows freshly dyed and his wig askew but impeccably dressed in his three-piece suit. The hair color and wig were recent innovations. My grandfather had always been vain about his appearance and bemoaned his receding hairline. Now his full head of hair gave him a slightly shaggy appearance. Nobody said much about the wig, but the hair dye caused considerable consternation in the family, especially when we were going out in public. My grandfather often left the cheap drugstore dye on too long, turning his eyebrows and mustache a jarring shade of magenta.

Would you believe it? – the instant she clapped eyes on me, she said that she saw I had taken to dyeing my hair! I was never more shocked, for it is quite untrue! It is not dyeing one’s hair merely to restore its colour when it begins to fade a little! I denied it, of course, but all she did was to give the horridest laugh, which made me feel ready to sink, as you may suppose!

Now, how do you suppose this queen will react when you turn up with your begging bowl in hand and say, 'Good morrow to you, Auntie. I am your nephew, Aegon, returned from the dead. I've been hiding on a poleboat all my life, but now I've washed the blue dye from my hair and I'd like a dragon, please...and oh, did I mention, my claim to the Iron Throne is stronger than your own?

Suddenly, I missed Jenna so much that it was almost a physical ache. I wanted to hold her hand, and hear her say something that would make this whole situation funny instead of incredibly screwed up. Archer would’ve been nice, too. He probably would’ve raised an eyebrow in that annoying/hot way he had, and made a dirty joke about Elodie possessing me. Or Cal. He wouldn’t say anything, but just his presence would make me feel better. And Dad- “Sophie,” Mom said, shaking me out of my reverie. “I don’t…I don’t even know how to start explaining all of this to you.” She looked at me, her eyes red. “I meant to, so many times, but everything was always so…complicated. Do you hate me?” I took a deep breath. “Of course not. I mean, I’m not thrilled. And I totally reserve the right to angst over all this later. But honestly, Mom? Right now, I’m so happy to see you that I wouldn’t care if you’re secretly a ninja sent from the future to destroy kittens and rainbows.” She chuckled, a choked and watery sound. “I missed you so much, Soph.” We hugged, my face against her collarbone. “I want the whole story, though,” I said, my words muffled. “All of it on the table.” She nodded. “Absolutely. After we talk to Aislinn.” Pulling back, I grimaced. “So how exactly are you related to her? Are you guys like, cousins?” “We’re sisters.” I stared at her. “Wait. So you’re like, a Brannick Brannick? But you don’t even have red hair.” Mom got off the bed, twisting her ponytail into a bun. “It’s called dye, Soph. Now, come on. Aislinn is already in a mood.” “Yeah, picked up on that,” I muttered, shoving the covers off and standing up

He smiles but I note that it doesn’t reach his eyes. I hit a nerve there and I smile smugly to myself. If I was looking for a sign from God whether or not I should tell him my secrets, the awful things that happened to me, then that lie from the good doctor was the sign I was looking for. How can you trust someone who lies to you about something so stupid as dyeing their hair? Would you share your deepest darkest secrets with them? I think not.

the side of it. 'Did you know that Miss Moffat is over four-hundred-years old? She looks amazing doesn't she and her hair, it's so beautiful and shiny. I think I might grow my hair that long and maybe when I'm older I'll dye it the same color as hers,' Gerty said excitedly. 'How can she be that old?' Charlotte asked. 'By magic of course,' Stef snorted. 'I'm new to this magic world, so I didn't know.' 'That's okay, I can teach you.' Gerty smiled. 'Thanks, I'd like that.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I blinked them back, grabbed some tissue, and started awkwardly trying to daub leftover dye into my pale eyebrows, praying it would make a difference. Through the mirror, I saw Tori walk in. She stopped. "Oh. My. God." It would have been better if she'd laughed. Her look of horror, then something like sympathy, meant it was as bad as I thought. "I told Derek to let me pick the color," she said. "I told him." "Hey," Simon called in. "Everyone decent?" He pushed open the door, saw me and blinked. "It's Derek's fault," Tori said. "He—" "Don't, please," I said. "No more fighting." Simon still shot a glare over his shoulder as Derek pushed open the door. "What?" Derek said. He looked at me. "Huh." Tori hustled me out the door, brushing past the guys with a whispered "jerk" for Derek. "At least now you know never to go dark again," she said as we walked. "A couple years ago, I let a friend dye mine blond. It was almost as bad. My hair felt like straw and..." And so, Tori and I bonded over hair horror stories.

You can be my avenging knight. Ooh! That’s what Princess X needs next: an avenging knight.” “You think?” “I’ve already decided. Your armor is gold, and you’re carrying a black battle-ax . . . I say we make you a redhead. You’ve got a little red in your hair, someplace. When the sunlight hits it just right.” “We’re in Seattle. How often does the sunlight hit anything?” “Walgreens is just right down the street. We could get a box of dye. It’d surprise the heck out of your dad.” “You’re going to make me do this, aren’t you?” “No, May. I’m not going to make you do anything, except help me finish the story.

There are scrawny necks and fat necks, loose necks, crepey necks, banded necks, wrinkled necks, stringy necks, saggy necks, flabby necks, mottled necks. There are necks that are an amazing combination of all of the above. According to my dermatologist, the neck starts to go at forty-three, and that’s that. You can put makeup on your face and concealer under your eyes and dye on your hair, you can shoot collagen and Botox and Restylane into your wrinkles and creases, but short of surgery, there’s not a damn thing you can do about a neck. The neck is a dead giveaway. Our faces are lies and our necks are the truth. You have to cut open a redwood tree to see how old it is, but you wouldn’t have to if it had a neck.

Most of us though have this image of a badass as being a trouble maker. We can mistake rebellion and thinking outside the square as not being a team player. That's where we get it wrong. Along with owning ourselves, being a badass means accepting responsibility for our world. It means being willing to drop our armor and feel things. Brené Brown, the epic researcher who blew the world away with her TED talk on vulnerability, describes the ingredients even further saying that the qualities of being "tough and tender" equal "badassery". We can use our badassness like an alter ego super hero. Someone who gets things done because she's the one to do it. She might be afraid, but that doesn't keep her from honoring who she is and what she's meant to do in the world.

But I'm pretty sure Mom won't consent to a field trip across the country with my hot boyfriend. Especially not back to Florida." I clamp my mouth shut so fast my teeth should be chipped. He grins. "You think I'm hot?" "My mom thinks you are." Except, Mom's not the one blushing right now. "Hmm," he says, giving me a you're-busted look. "As hot as I am, I don't think she'd buy into my charm on this one. We'll have to call in a professional." Then that fish prince actually winks at me. "You mean Rachel," I say, toeing the sand. "I guess it's worth a shot. Don't expect much, though. I've already missed too much school." "We could fly down on the weekend. Be back before school on Monday." I nod. "She might go for that. If Rachel plays her cards right." Yeah, she might go for that. She might also pierce her tongue, dye her hair cherry red and spike it peacock-style. Ain't happening. I shrug. "I'll just keep practicing while you're gone. Maybe we don't have to go-" "No!" Galen and Toraf shout, startling me. "Why not? I won't go too deep-" "Out of the question," Galen says, standing. "You will not get in the water while I'm gone." I stomp a hole in the sand. "I already told you that you're not ordering me around, didn't I? Now you've pretty much guaranteed that I'm getting in the water, Your Highness." Galen runs a hand through his hair and utters a string of cuss words, courtesy of Rachel, no doubt. he paces in the sane a few seconds, pinching the bridge of his nose. Suddenly he stops. Relaxes. Smiles even. He walks over to his friend, slaps him on the back. "Toraf, I need a favor.

On a different (possibly irrelevant) level altogether, I was disturbed by the Cuban use of make-up (the first heavily made-up woman I noticed was a curvaceous young soldier in army fatigues who also had her hair in curlers) and have still to resolve my own feelings about, for example, a revolutionary woman who dyes her hair blond--as Haydee Santamarie (who was with the rebels at the Moncada Barracks as well as in the Sierra Maestra) did for several years--or who otherwise (through hair straighteners and whatnot) endeavors to look like someone other than herself. At first glance, it is actually cheering to see that women revolutionaries also paint their face and process their hair, but then one wonders: if a revolution fails to make one comfortable with what one is..., can one assume that, on a personal level, it is a success at all?

What we have here is a war—the war of matter and spirit. In the classical era, spirit was in harmony with matter. Matter used to condense spirit. What was unseen—the ghost of Hamlet’s father—was seen—in the conscience of the king. The spirit was trapped in the matter of theater. The theater made the unseen, seen. In the Romantic era, spirit overwhelms matter. The glass of champagne can’t contain the bubbles. But never in the history of humanity has spirit been at war with matter. And that is what we have today. The war of banks and religion. It’s what I wrote in Prayers of the Dawn, that in New York City, banks tower over cathedrals. Banks are the temples of America. This is a holy war. Our economy is our religion. When I came back to midtown a week after the attack—I mourned—but not in a personal way—it was a cosmic mourning—something that I could not specify because I didn’t know any of the dead. I felt grief without knowing its origin. Maybe it was the grief of being an immigrant and of not having roots. Not being able to participate in the whole affair as a family member but as a foreigner, as a stranger—estranged in myself and confused—I saw the windows of Bergdorf and Saks—what a theater of the unexpected—my mother would have cried—there were only black curtains, black drapes—showing the mourning of the stores—no mannequins, just veils—black veils. When the mannequins appeared again weeks later—none of them had blond hair. I don’t know if it was because of the mourning rituals or whether the mannequins were afraid to be blond—targets of terrorists. Even they didn’t want to look American. They were out of fashion after the Twin Towers fell. To the point, that even though I had just dyed my hair blond because I was writing Hamlet and Hamlet is blond, I went back to my coiffeur immediately and told him—dye my hair black. It was a matter of life and death, why look like an American. When naturally I look like an Arab and walk like an Egyptian.

She pouts. “Well, Art, this morning my dog ate half my boomerang.” She pulls a chewed piece of wood from a pocket. “Does it still work?” Arathusa considers this question and throws the object across the yard with surprising skill. It whistles through the air and lands in the dust a few feet from the latrine. They both stare at it for a moment. “Well,” she says with delight, “I guess it half works! Art, what’s your philosophy?” A few axioms come to mind—Don’t buy tomatoes in winter; men over forty should not dye their hair; expensive underwear is worth it—but no philosophies. Less demurs: “Um, I don’t think I have one.” “Everybody has one; you just have to discover it. Mine is about embracing the affirmative. It goes like this: Know no no.” “No, no, no,” Less parrots. “You’re mishearing me,” she says, smiling. “Now, listen: Know no no.” “No, no, no.” Arathusa’s smile sharpens. “No, no, no!” she says, then starts again: “Know. No. No.” “No,” Less begins slowly. “No. No.” A sigh. “No.

CUCHULAIN’S FIGHT WITH THE SEA A MAN came slowly from the setting sun, To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun, And said, ‘I am that swineherd whom you bid Go watch the road between the wood and tide, But now I have no need to watch it more.’ Then Emer cast the web upon the floor, And raising arms all raddled with the dye, Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry. That swineherd stared upon her face and said, ‘No man alive, no man among the dead, Has won the gold his cars of battle bring.’ ‘But if your master comes home triumphing Why must you blench and shake from foot to crown?’ Thereon he shook the more and cast him down Upon the web-heaped floor, and cried his word: ‘With him is one sweet-throated like a bird.’ ‘You dare me to my face,’ and thereupon She smote with raddled fist, and where her son Herded the cattle came with stumbling feet, And cried with angry voice, ’It is not meet To idle life away, a common herd.’ ‘I have long waited, mother, for that word: But wherefore now?’ ‘There is a man to die; You have the heaviest arm under the sky.’ ‘Whether under its daylight or its stars My father stands amid his battle-cars.’ ‘But you have grown to be the taller man.’ ‘Yet somewhere under starlight or the sun My father stands.’ ‘Aged, worn out with wars On foot, on horseback or in battle-cars.’ ‘I only ask what way my journey lies, For He who made you bitter made you wise.’ ‘The Red Branch camp in a great company Between wood’s rim and the horses of the sea. Go there, and light a camp-fire at wood’s rim; But tell your name and lineage to him Whose blade compels, and wait till they have found Some feasting man that the same oath has bound.’ Among those feasting men Cuchulain dwelt, And his young sweetheart close beside him knelt, Stared on the mournful wonder of his eyes, Even as Spring upon the ancient skies, And pondered on the glory of his days; And all around the harp-string told his praise, And Conchubar, the Red Branch king of kings, With his own fingers touched the brazen strings. At last Cuchulain spake, ‘Some man has made His evening fire amid the leafy shade. I have often heard him singing to and fro, I have often heard the sweet sound of his bow. Seek out what man he is.’ One went and came. ‘He bade me let all know he gives his name At the sword-point, and waits till we have found Some feasting man that the same oath has bound.’ Cuchulain cried, ‘I am the only man Of all this host so bound from childhood on. After short fighting in the leafy shade, He spake to the young man, ’Is there no maid Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round, Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground, That you have come and dared me to my face?’ ‘The dooms of men are in God’s hidden place,’ ‘Your head a while seemed like a woman’s head That I loved once.’ Again the fighting sped, But now the war-rage in Cuchulain woke, And through that new blade’s guard the old blade broke, And pierced him. ‘Speak before your breath is done.’ ‘Cuchulain I, mighty Cuchulain’s son.’ ‘I put you from your pain. I can no more.’ While day its burden on to evening bore, With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed; Then Conchubar sent that sweet-throated maid, And she, to win him, his grey hair caressed; In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast. Then Conchubar, the subtlest of all men, Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten, Spake thus: ‘Cuchulain will dwell there and brood For three days more in dreadful quietude, And then arise, and raving slay us all. Chaunt in his ear delusions magical, That he may fight the horses of the sea.’ The Druids took them to their mystery, And chaunted for three days. Cuchulain stirred, Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard The cars of battle and his own name cried; And fought with the invulnerable tide.

Let the nations be glad and sing for joy…. —Psalm 67:4 (KJV) My wife was poring over a map of Europe. “Look, Danny. My homeland is a tiny little country. I had no idea it was so small.” “I know, you could put maybe half a dozen Irelands inside the state of Texas.” It may be small, but Ireland has made a huge impression on the world. More than a dozen US presidents and some thirty-four million Americans trace their roots to Ireland, including my own auburn bride. Officially, Saint Patrick’s Day honors the missionary who came to Ireland about 1,600 years ago. There he started hundreds of churches and baptized thousands, thus raising the moral profile of Ireland. But most of his life is a mystery and forgotten. Unofficially, Saint Patrick’s Day is everybody’s opportunity to be Irish for a day, regardless of religion or nationality. By the simple act of wearing green, I can be lucky or bonny or practice a bit of blarney. In short, I can be happy for a day. There are many ways to celebrate the day. Some daring types dye their hair green or wear shamrock tattoos. Others march in parades or attend Irish festivals, where they dance an Irish jig or enjoy an Irish stew. More serious types demonstrate for green causes or go to spiritual retreats, where they pray for missionaries. Yes, I will wear green today, so I don’t get pinched. And I will listen to some fine Irish music, starting with my favorite, “Danny Boy.” I will also pray for some of my former students who are currently missionaries in Ireland. Most of all, I will try to be happy for the day. That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it? And if I can be happy for one day, why not every day? There is much to be happy about, God. Help me find a reason to sing with joy every day. —Daniel Schantz Digging Deeper: Ps 16:9; Is 55:12

From my WIP "In Hiding" Hidden in the darkness, she exhaled, releasing the tension. As she sunk into the worn cushions, Kate felt the wave of exhaustion crash over her. She dug in her backpack for the crackers wrapped in a paper towel. Closing her eyes, she ate, using her imagination to change the bland wafer into something more appealing. Retrieving her cell from her pocket, she shielded the artificial light with her hand as she set the alarm, always set to vibrate mode. The glow from the screen briefly illuminated her face. Her blond hair was history, the honey golden hue hidden under the dull dark cheap hair dye. Without makeup, she appeared younger than her twenty years, until you looked into her eyes. Here her anguish was center stage for the world to see. She barely slept and seldom ate. Worse were the dreams. Trapped in a surreal world, the explosion of gunfire surrounded her followed by blood splatter. Often, she woke on the edge of a scream waking in time to stifle her terror. She could ill afford this, screaming could bring him down on her. There were nights that she prayed it would, thus ending the torment for them both. Perhaps another night. Kate took one last glance around the room as she tucked her phone into her back jeans pocket. Slumping over, she was out before her head hit the sofa. Camouflaged she appears to be nothing more than a bundle of rags. Unseen in the darkness he slipped inside the house, blending into the shadows, he had waited patiently hidden in the edge of the woods, knowing she would seek shelter. Wayne closed his eyes and zoned in on her. Chasing this bitch was wearing on him; it was killing his focus. As his prey, she had developed self-persevering habits. She never left a trace of herself, not a sound, not a fiber or a hair. He drew a deep, silent breath, directing his senses, he concentrated on Kate, how she thought, what she feared.

Last night I undressed for bed. But instead of crawling between the sheets I decided to stand, naked, in front of the large full-length mirror that is propped against the wall next to my bed. ⠀ ⠀ I turned off the bright lights, and found a song that spoke to the energy I could feel under my skin. For a while I just stood there. And I looked at myself. Bare skin. Open Heart. Clear truth. ⠀ ⠀ It's a wonder, after 42 years on earth, to allow it to fully land, this knowing that I can stop, and look at myself and think things other than unkind words. ⠀ ⠀ Don't get me wrong. I don't want to paint you a pretty social media picture that doesn't play out in real life. I'm not suddenly completely fine with all that is. I'm human and I'm a woman in the midst of this particular culture, and so of course I'd love to be tighter and firmer and lifted. I'd love to have the skin and metabolism I did in my twenties. I wish, often, that my stomach were flatter. I wear makeup and I dye away my gray hair. I worry about these things too, of course I do. ⠀ ⠀ But finally, and fully - I can stand and look at myself and be filled, completely, with love. I can look at myself entirely bare and think, yes, I like myself now. Just as I am. Even if nothing changes. This me. She is good. And she is beautiful. ⠀ ⠀ And even in the space of allowing myself to be human, and annoyed with those things I view as imperfections, I honor and celebrate this shift. ⠀ ⠀ And so last night I was able to stand there. Naked and unashamed and run my own hands gently along my own skin. To offer the tenderness of the deepest seduction. To practice being my own best lover, to romance my own soul. To light the candles and buy the flowers. To hold space for my own knowing. ⠀ ⠀ And to touch my own skin while the music played. Gently. Lightly. With reverence. My thighs, my arms, my breasts, my belly, the points where my pulse makes visible that faint movement that proves me alive. To trace the translucent blue veins, the scars, the ink that tells stories. To whisper to the home of my own desire. ⠀ ⠀ I love you. ⠀ I respect your knowing. ⠀ Thank you for waiting for me to get here. ⠀ I finally see that you are holy.

When we reach a certain age we have opportunity to decide how we present ourselves to the world, and that age is getting ever younger. Even our young teenage generation is aware of fashion and we grow acutely more and more aware of how obsessed our society is with imagery and appearance. Or rather we become more aware that to get on in life we need to be brash and bright and sparkling all the time. That bright colours and big noises is what gets your through life, that any substance behind that is almost irrelevant to success. We only need look at who we proclaim as celebrities, who society rewards with wealth, that substance is not a prerequisite to success. Be bright, make a statement, choose a bold look, dye your hair, pierce your body, paint it with permanent ink, wear outlandish clothes and don't be afraid to say something crude or mean or controversial because that's the person you are. Or is it? Is it that when you've done with the all the additions to your body, the person you look at in the mirror is no longer the real you. It is a character, the one you think society wants you to be, that society has convinced you that you want to be, substance optional. One of the most beautiful moments of conversation on and offline I've had with some people is when they surprise me, a comment or opinion with substance and thought, something away fro their character, revealing the real individual in-between. So why hide that part of you. When did our society evolve into a place when people have to sell themselves as a larger than life character? When did being a little quiet, thoughtful, more subtly dressed stop being classy and become perceived as dull. When did people, intelligent people, start to realise that world didn't want them to be themselves and it was better to throw in some over the top extravagances, make claim to some extreme habits and tastes. These same people permanently seeking definition of the character they've become rather than friendship from real people who know it is purely superficial but go along with it anyway. You're not your unnaturally coloured hair or your mark applied to you by a skilled artist. You are not the label of clothes you wear nor the quirky colours you choose to represent yourself. Just be honest with yourself, attention seeking is an illness. Don't follow the trends like everyone else. Make your own. That's my objective, to unashamedly be myself, And that is probably why I always wear a lot of black. No tricks, no fancy colours, no parlour tricks to detract from who I am. I want people to see my subtance, not be clouded with smoke and mirrors and see a character that doesn't really exist.

When we reach a certain age we have opportunity to decide how we present ourselves to the world, and that age is getting ever younger. Even our young teenage generation is aware of fashion and we grow acutely more and more aware of how obsessed our society is with imagery and appearance. Or rather we become more aware that to get on in life we need to be brash and bright and sparkling all the time. That bright colours and big noises is what gets your through life, that any substance behind that is almost irrelevant to success. We only need look at who we proclaim as celebrities, who society rewards with wealth, that substance is not a prerequisite to success. Be bright, make a statement, choose a bold look, dye your hair, pierce your body, paint it with permanent ink, wear outlandish clothes and don't be afraid to say something crude or mean or controversial because that's the person you are. Or is it? Is it that when you've done with the all the additions to your body, the person you look at in the mirror is no longer the real you. It is a character, the one you think society wants you to be, that society has convinced you that you want to be, substance optional. One of the most beautiful moments of conversation on and offline I've had with some people is when they surprise me, a comment or opinion with substance and thought, something away fro their character, revealing the real individual in-between. So why hide that part of you. When did our society evolve into a place when people have to sell themselves as a larger than life character? When did being a little quiet, thoughtful, more subtly dressed stop being classy and become perceived as dull. When did people, intelligent people, start to realise that world didn't want them to be themselves and it was better to throw in some over the top extravagances, make claim to some extreme habits and tastes. These same people permanently seeking definition of the character they've become rather than friendship from real people who know it is purely superficial but go along with it anyway. You're not your unnaturally coloured hair or your mark applied to you by a skilled artist. You are not the label of clothes you wear nor the quirky colours you choose to represent yourself. Just be honest with yourself, attention seeking is an illness. Don't follow the trends like everyone else. Make your own. That's my objective, to unashamedly be myself, And that is probably why I always wear a lot of black. No tricks, no fancy colours, no parlour tricks to detract from who I am. I want people to see my subtance, not be clouded with smoke and mirrors and see a character that doesn't really exist.

O happy age, which our first parents called the age of gold! Not because of gold, so much adored in this iron age, was then easily purchased, but because those two fatal words mine and thine, were distinctions unknown to the people of those fortunate times; for all things were in common in that holy age: men, for their sustenance, needed only lift their hands and take it from the sturdy oak, whose spreading arms liberally invited them to gather the wholesome savoury fruit; while the clear springs, and silver rivulets, with luxuriant plenty, ordered them their pure refreshing water. In hollow trees, and in the clefts of rocks, the laboring and industrious bees erected their little commonwealths, that men might reap with pleasure and with ease the the sweet and fertile harvest of their toils. The tough and strenuous cork-trees did of themselves, and without other art than their native liberality, dismiss and impart their broad light bark, which served to cover these lowly huts, propped up with rough-hewn stakes, that were first built as a shelter against the inclemencies of air. All then was union, all peace, all love and friendship in the world; as yet no rude plough-share with violence to pry into the pious bowels of our mother earth, for she, without compulsion, kindly yielded from every part of her fruitful and spacious bosom, whatever might at once satisfy, sustain, and indulge her frugal children. Then was the when innocent, beautiful young sheperdesses went tripping over the hills and vales; their lovely hairs sometimes plaited, sometimes loose and flowing, clad in no other vestment but what was necessary to cover decently what modesty would always have concealed. The Tyrian dye and the rich glossy hue of silk, martyred and dissembled into every color, which are now esteemed so fine and magnificent, were unknown to the innocent plainness of that age; arrayed in the most magnificent garbs, and all the most sumptous adornings which idleness and luxury have taught succeeding pride: lovers then expressed the passion of their souls in the unaffected language of the heart, with the native plainness and sincerity in which they were conceived, and divested of all that artificial contexture, which enervates what it labours to enforce: imposture, deceit and malice had not yet crept in and imposed themselves unbribed upon mankind in the disguise of truth and simplicity: justice, unbiased either by favour or interest, which now so fatally pervert it, was equally and impartially dispensed; nor was the judge's fancy law, for then there were neither judges nor causes to be judged: the modest maid might walk wherever she pleased alone, free from the attacks of lewd, lascivious importuners. But, in this degenerate age, fraud and a legion of ills infecting the world, no virtue can be safe, no honour be secure; while wanton desires, diffused into the hearts of men, corrupt the strictest watches, and the closest retreats; which, though as intricate and unknown as the labyrinth of Crete, are no security for chastity. Thus that primitive innocence being vanished, the opression daily prevailing, there was a necessity to oppose the torrent of violence: for which reason the order of knight-hood-errant was instituted to defend the honour of virgins, protect widows, relieve orphans, and assist all the distressed in general. Now I myself am one of this order, honest friends; and though all people are obliged by the law of nature to be kind to persons of my order; yet, since you, without knowing anything of this obligation, have so generously entertained me, I ought to pay you my utmost acknowledgment; and, accordingly, return you my most hearty thanks for the same.

I no longer require your services." With her head held high, she strode for the door. Hell and blazes, he wouldn't let her do this! Now when he knew what was at stake. "You don't want to hear my report?" he called out after her. She paused near the door. "I don't believe you even have a report." "I certainly do, a very thorough one. I've only been waiting for my aunt to transcribe my scrawl into something decipherable. Give me a day, and I can offer you names and addresses and dates, whatever you require." "A day? Just another excuse to put me off so you can wreak more havoc." She stepped into the doorway, and he hurried to catch her by the arm and drag her around to face him. He ignored the withering glance she cast him. "The viscount is twenty-two years your senior," he said baldly. Her eyes went wide. "You're making that up." "He's aged very well, I'll grant you, but he's still almost twice your age. Like many vain Continental gentlemen, he dyes his hair and beard-which is why he appears younger than you think." That seemed to shake her momentarily. Then she stiffened. "All right, so he's an older man. That doesn't mean he wouldn't make a good husband." "He's an aging roué, with an invalid sister. The advantages in a match are all his. You'd surely end up taking care of them both. That's probably why he wants to marry you." "You can't be sure of that." "No? He's already choosing not to stay here for the house party at night because of his sister. That tells me that he needs help he can't get from servants." Her eyes met his, hot with resentment. "Because it's hard to find ones who speak Portuguese." He snorted. "I found out this information from his Portuguese servants. They also told me that his lavish spending is a façade. He's running low on funds. Why do you think his servants gossip about him? They haven't been paid recently. So he’s definitely got his eye on your fortune.” “Perhaps he does,” she conceded sullenly. “But not the others. Don’t try to claim that of them.” “I wouldn’t. They’re in good financial shape. But Devonmont is estranged from his mother, and no one knows why. I need more time to determine it, though perhaps your sister-in-law could tell you, if you bothered to ask.” “Plenty of people don’t get along with their families,” she said stoutly. “He has a long-established mistress, too.” A troubled expression crossed her face. “Unmarried men often have mistresses. It doesn’t mean he wouldn’t give her up when he marries.” He cast her a hard stare. “Are you saying you have no problem with a man paying court to you while he keeps a mistress?” The sigh that escaped her was all the answer he needed. “I don’t think he’s interested in marriage, anyway.” She tipped up her chin. “That still leaves the duke.” “With his mad family.” “He’s already told me about his father, whom I knew about anyway.” “Ah, but did you know about his great-uncle? He ended his life in an asylum in Belgium, while there to receive some special treatment for his delirium.” Her lower lip trembled. “The duke didn’t mention that, no. But then our conversation was brief. I’m sure he’ll tell me if I ask. He was very forthright on the subject of his family’s madness when he offered-“ As she stopped short, Jackson’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Offered what?” She hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “Marriage, if you must know.” Damn it all. Jackson had no right to resent it, but the thought of her in Lyons’s arms made him want to smash something. “And of course, you accepted his offer,” he said bitterly. “You couldn’t resist the appeal of being a great duchess.” Her eyes glittered at him. “You’re the only person who doesn’t see the advantage in such a match.

Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon’s daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.

I've put one foot before another and the years have passed, the time marked by late rent payments and the appearance of wrinkles - tiny ones, on the corners of my eyes. They are a reminder of my youth, and of the hourglass that we all live in, grains of sand slipping through the gap of time, each granule adding another wrinkle, another pocket of fat, another sag that I will fight to overcome, another grey hair to pluck or dye.

the appearance of wrinkles — tiny ones, on the corners of my eyes. They are a reminder of my youth, and of the hourglass that we all live in, grains of sand slipping through the gap of time, each granule adding another wrinkle, another pocket of fat, another sag that I will fight to overcome, another grey hair to pluck or dye.

It seems like a lot of effort but it was also interesting how life seems to get better when you think better.

The night after he kidnapped me, he flew us across the state to Vegas and we had been here ever since. He made me cut my once long curly hair and dye it black. With shades on, you wouldn’t even recognize that it was

So it seems like your biggest expenses fall in this miscellaneous category. Part of setting a budget is figuring out how much you should be spending and then discipline yourself to stay under that amount. You should also be looking at monthly expenditures that maybe are unnecessary. Like . . .” He scrolled down a bit and said, “Do you really need Netflix?” That was like asking me if I needed my firstborn child. “Uh, yes. I need it. That’s nonnegotiable. If for no other reason than it allows me to consume television the same way I do ice cream and alcohol.” He laughed and said, “Okay, okay. You win. Netflix stays. What about this expense for Sephora? A hundred and thirty-two dollars?” While I’d had to downgrade my hair dye, makeup, cleanser, and toner, I was not willing to give this up. “That’s for my moisturizer.” He blinked at me a couple of times, as if he hadn’t heard me correctly. “You paid a hundred and thirty-two dollars for lotion for your face?” “It’s not lotion. It’s moisturizer.” “For one bottle? What’s in it? Dragon’s blood and the scraping of a unicorn’s horn?” I wasn’t about to tell him it wasn’t for a whole bottle, but for like two ounces. “Ha-ha. I need it. My face needs it.” “You don’t need it. You’re beautiful.” “It’s why I’m beautiful!” I was caught between sheer delight and disbelief at his words, and partial terror that he was going to make me stop using it. But then I started thinking about the way he’d complimented me—he’d said it so matter-of-factly, like it wasn’t his personal opinion, just a truth he happened to agree with. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. While I was trying to figure out his deeper meaning, he chuckled and shook his head. “Come on, you’re easily the hottest girl in this apartment.” If I thought I’d been thrilled before, it was nothing compared to what I was feeling now. A flush started at the top of my scalp and went down to my toes—unpainted because I couldn’t afford to get a pedicure. Then I realized that Tyler was quoting back to me what I’d said about him at the charity event. Did that mean . . . it was a joke? A callback and he didn’t really mean anything by it? Or was he trying to butter me up so that he could pry my moisturizer out of my cold, soon-to-be dehydrated hands? Not willing to be taken in, I said, “You’re not going to flatter me to get me to change my mind. I’ll remind you that I’m the only girl in this apartment.” “That’s not true. Pidge is here and she’s gorgeous. Aren’t you?” he asked his dog, bending over to pet her. She licked his cheek and I had never felt more of a kinship to her, ever. He turned his attention back to me. “Do you really need it?” “The only time I get a facial now is when I open the dishwasher midcycle and the steam hits me in my face. I don’t buy the moisturizer every month. I’m really careful with how much I use on a daily basis. But I’ve had to give up so many other things. Let me have this one.” “All right, all right.

Where hair dye is concerned, being blond is practically a career.

It’s not really such a bad place,” she says, looking around the room. She’s moved on to dessert. “They know how to make a decent rice pudding.” My hand shakes a little when I pour creamer into her coffee. If I got on a plane tonight I could be in Rome in time for dinner tomorrow. Homemade pasta, fresh tomatoes and basil. Real Parmesan cheese, not the kind that comes in packets. And wine—maybe something I haven’t tasted before, a grape varietal I don’t yet know. It would be nothing like here. A break from this place. From Mom. I want to get home and e-mail Paul. I will be there. I am coming. I feel her eyes on me as I pack up my things. “You should dye your hair before you leave,” she says finally. “See if the salon can fit you in this week.” “That’s a good idea.” I kiss her goodbye. “I bet Hannah is gorgeous, she’ll look just like Emily did at that age. Beautiful, but not the brightest bulb. It’s good you’re going. You’ll have to send me pictures.” She surveys my face. I try to keep it blank, unreadable. “Use my brightening mask when you get home. It’ll clear up whatever’s happening on your chin.” “I will.” I shift my purse full of papers and snacks and bottled water from one shoulder to the other. “I love you, see you tomorrow.

Anesthesiologist,” I tell him. “Sì.” He smiles at me. It’s a goofy, toothy grin. His nose is large and his ears stick out, but I like how his thick black hair gets in his eyes when he tilts his head to bite into the pear. He runs a hand through it to push it back, but it doesn’t help. There is a snap as he bites through the pear’s skin, into the flesh, peeling it with his teeth. I watch his throat work as he eats. A bit of juice disappears beneath the collar of his shirt. His mother huffs, pretending exasperation, and gets him a napkin. This is Paul and Hannah’s apartment—Donato and his parents live one building over—but I can tell by how he stretches across the living room couch, how his mother directs my brother-in-law in the kitchen, that they might as well live here too. “Marie’s teaching me how to make a proper cacio e pepe,” Paul calls to me from the stove. The pot of boiling water is making the room muggy. Marie goes to prop open the front door. “You have not seen Hannah since her mamma’s funeral?” Donato asks, watching me from the couch. He has very light brown eyes, fringed with thick lashes and full, almost feminine lips that are slick and shiny from the pear juice. I can feel him assessing me. Taking in the box-dye job, the blunt haircut I managed to fit in between visits to the nursing home and my red-eye flight. It’s shorter than I wanted and feels uneven. It looks exactly the same, Guy assured me before dropping me off at the airport. “Over a year now,” I say, trying not to fidget. He raises an eyebrow, still enjoying that pear. I refuse to feel guilty. Paul had left for Italy soon after the funeral, taking Hannah with him. And I had my mother to think of, her grief was insurmountable. It affected everything. She did not want to go outside, she did not want to eat.

Sleeping was a challenge, awkward because of the wrap I wore around my head. That was why I didn’t appreciate Taro’s startled shout early the next morning. “Who died?” I asked in a thick voice. “Your hair!” he practically shrieked. My hair had died? “What?” “Your hair!” Oh. I guessed it had worked. That gave me a little glow of accomplishment. It didn’t make up for being roused at a ridiculously early hour of the day. “It can’t look that bad.” I snuggled back down in bed. “Oh no? Take a look in the mirror.” “I will. When I get up.” He tapped my forehead, and kept tapping until I opened my eyes. So I could see the strand of hair he’d pulled before them. It was green. Green. Not greenish. Not with a green tinge. Green as grass. My hair was green. With a cry of dismay, I flew from the bed and flung open a window before seeking a mirror. In the bright light of the morning, I looked at my reflection. My hair, every single strand, was the same unrelenting shade of green. My gods, what had I done? Taro started laughing. And he didn’t stop. I could have thrown the mirror at him, only it wasn’t mine. “Will you stop?” “That’s what you get for meddling with what you were born with.” “It wasn’t supposed to do this.” How could I be seen by anyone like this? My eyebrows were practically gleaming in orange contrast. And the color was thorough, every hair, right to the skull. Green. What was I going to do? Taro was still collapsed on the bed laughing. “Keep laughing, my lord,” I said sourly. “You’ll have to go to the market for some hair dye.” “How do you plan to make me?” he snickered. “You’ll make me go out like this?” I asked, surprised. “I think you should have to suffer for doing this without talking to me first.” “Fine. If that’s the way you want to be about it.” It would be humiliating, of course, but there were worse things in life than green—green!—hair. I would go to the market myself, if I couldn’t wash this out or change it back. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Maybe I’ll start a new fashion.” His laughter stopped abruptly. “You’re going to go walking around with green hair?” He looked appalled. “I have no choice, do I?” His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.” “We’ll see, won’t we?” Oh my gods. My hair was green.

I haven’t even checked to see if my Heart-2-Heart pal wrote back.” Madison plucked at the fuzzy strands of yarn on her pillow. “You should. I love this program! We can tell each other anything. It’s so great!” “And this guy’s name is Blue?” Piper’s voice sounded doubtful. “I don’t remember any kid at school named Blue. There was that one guy we called Green in our chem lab, remember? But I think we called him that because his last name was Green and we could never remember his first name.” Madison giggled even more. She was feeling like a fizzy soda pop, bubbly all over. “Oh, Piper, his name isn’t really Blue. That’s just his nickname.” “Do you have a nickname?” “Of course,” Madison said. “But I don’t want to tell you what it is. You’ll think it’s ridiculous.” “I can’t believe you won’t tell me,” Piper protested. “I’m your BFF. We share everything!” “I know…”” “Come on, tell me!” Piper pleaded. “Look, I told you about the time I wet my pants in second grade, and that I had a total crush on Mr. Proctor, our fifth-grade teacher. And last year, when I--” “This is different, Piper,” Madison tried to explain. “We can tell our deepest secrets to our Heart-2-Heart pal because they don’t know who we are.” “I just can’t believe this,” Piper continued in a really hurt voice. “Didn’t I tell you about that D I almost got in Algebra I and the secret tutor I had to hire to bring up my grade? God, I even told you about that mole on my butt that I had to have removed. If that’s not a deep secret, I don’t know what is.” “Okay, okay!” Madison sat up. “I’ll tell you. It’s Pinky.” There was a long pause. “Pinky? That’s ridiculous.” “See?” Madison shouted into the phone. “I knew you’d say that.” She got up and crossed to her vanity mirror. She tousled her hair with one hand to make it stand up. “It had to do with dyeing my hair pink.” There was an even longer pause. “You’re not going to do that, are you?” Piper asked quietly. “Because I don’t think it will help the campaign. Oh, it might steal a few votes from Jeremy--but do we really need them? I’m not sure.” “Piper, relax,” Madison said. “I was just joking about doing it.

oil?” I asked, wondering why she hadn’t included me in her little plan. All those visions of girlfriend time were fading faster than cheap hair dye after a scorching day at the beach. She shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.” I ground my teeth together. “You thought I’d rather get bitten twenty times?” She

Tall, pale-skinned, and trained for warfare since childhood, the Celts were fearsome. They spiked up their hair with lime, covered their bodies in dyes or tattoos, ripped off their clothes in battle, and fought totally butt-naked, so mad on war and glory that no one could stop them. The Romans were terrified of the Celts, but they admired them too. Too bad Roman discipline won out in the end. But not tonight... tonight is going to be massive—awesome beyond awesomeness—and my Celts are going to win!

Gabe fisted his hand in my hair and yanked my head back from his lips. “Fuck me like you mean it, Josh.” His eyes were wild with desperation to come. I loved that Gabe wasn’t afraid to show me what he was feeling and thinking. There was no guess work with my man. He grabbed my ass with both hands and began thrusting up to meet my downward strokes. “Need you.” “Detective Bossy Bottom,” I whispered against his lips before I captured them in another soul-scorching kiss. I

We called him Mr. Cold. A name, I think, Zeke made up. Anyway, Zeke was the first one I heard say it during third-period art one day, and my laughter turned from tittering to inconsolable, if laughter can be called inconsolable. Mr. Coles had a young, elfin face with tidily groomed hair on his cheeks and chin, none on his upper lip. He was handsome. Impossibly, even freakishly, handsome—strong cheekbones and a smooth dark complexion—a fact I had to reluctantly admit and one that most of the girls never let anyone forget. Hair all black while most of his peers sported grays and bad dye jobs. And Mr. Coles always smiled, even when angry and trying to be stern, especially when angry and trying to be stern. All of this is why we treated him poorly and why he overcompensated, first attempting to come across as a pal, a trustworthy big brother, and when that failed turning into a hard-ass for a time, though he was a phony hard-ass, one we could see clear through. Rarely, if ever, did we tremble in fear at his silly yelling and stiff pointing finger. Marshall, Mr. Coles called to me as I choked on laughter after he grew upset from Zeke’s taunting. Marshall, it’s funny, but that’s enough. This just caused us to laugh more. The warmest man in the school, Mr. Cold, then sent Ezekiel into the hallway as his mentor, Mr. Drayton, probably advised him to do. Damn, that’s cold-blooded, Mr. Cold, a proud and smiling Zeke said on his way out to another rise in laughter. The next time we saw Mr. Coles, he was stiff and stern. Even his movements changed to reflect the new him.

I rolled my eyes at her image, grinning back at me from the hair dye box, and consoled myself with the thought that even the Brontë sisters must have got sick of the words Wuthering Heights from time to time. And it’s quite plausible that, undercover of candlelight, Emily sneered at the mere mention of Jane Eyre, and stuck two fingers up in Charlotte’s direction before getting back to her poetry.

I am beginning to think that he is an agent planted by L’Oréal in my house to ensure that my hair turns white overnight and thus I have to spend all my money on hair dye.

My mother made me wear a dark wig when I was two. She started dyeing my hair dark when I was about five because she didn't like my blonde hair. Everyone thinks my hair is naturally dark brown or black but it's not. My natural hair color is actually golden blonde. Got my blonde hair from my grandmother. My sons got my natural blonde hair.

My mother made me wear a dark wig when I was two. She started dyeing my hair dark when I was about five because she didn't like my blonde hair. Everyone thinks my hair is naturally dark brown or black but it;s not. My natural hair color is actually golden blonde. Got my blonde hair from my grandmother. My sons got my natural blonde hair.

Party time Part 1 After school, we go to Maddie’s. When we were little, like freshman year and even some of the sophomore year, we would sometimes stay in her room and put on x-out and pluck out eyebrows into that fine little line, and color our hair with highlights, and order pizza, cramming down as much as we could eat. Those days are going, we can’t get fat. Now Jenny hardly eats anything, and if she does, she can hardly keep it down. I think maybe that’s what I get so lightheaded, I only eat like once a day now. Jenny back then had a little extra around the middle, and now you can see her ribs, she even has that two-defined line on her tummy that goes into her underwear. I remember sneaking around late at night in her hose stealing a cookie from the jar on the top shelf in the old wood cabinet, that is also where her mom would hide her cigarettes that Jenny loved also, and the condoms were in a trinity box on top of the fridge, I sorry but I find that hilarious. At that time, we would stretch out on one of her, old enormous worn-out couches and watch, TV or movies until we fell asleep in our nightshirts’-the TV in Maddie’s living room is like 80 inches it’s like being in a movie theater our legs tangled together under an enormous fleece blanket. Maddie and liv are always entangled more passionately than Jenny and me on the loveseat! Maddie has an ancient TV in her room from the 1990s. It sucks and is small, it’s one of those with the big back on it, and the color is green, like looking into a fish tank. It’s funny her mom and dad don’t have money blinds on the windows, yet they have a big ass TV. You can sometimes see the people in the next condo overlooking us like we can see them get busy in their room! Yet nothing beats the hot guy taking a leak in room 302, he looks to be in his late twenties. He takes the boxes off at 10 pm and we get a free show. He knows we can see him because he makes it look inflexible and you are no more personable. Jenny and we girls love to press upon the glass, and just have fun and be a little crazy, like lifting our nighties and flashing the goods. Facebook stocking gets boring quickly anymore, so some nights the webcam comes out too. After her mom and dad are asleep… I like it’s more fun to be bad! Like we all have profiles and fake names because none of us are eighteen yet. Any- how’s mine is ‘Angel Pink Wings 01’ Maddie goes by: ‘Mad kitty 69’ Jenny goes by: ‘Ms. Little Lover 14’ Liv goes by: ‘Olivia O 123’ Yet everyone knows her by Liv so that name is okay- I guess. We make good money- ‘Double Clicking the Mouse.’ You would not believe all the pervs on this cam. the site, just wanting to see us doing it. Like old guys like our PE teacher! Man- that I didn’t even think about how to turn on a computer. Just like him, I guess they need too to see more of us close up. We have our checks mailed to Jenny's college boyfriend’s PO Box. Me this is what I do and yes- I come for you all, I just put in fake blue hair dye in, and have fake long lashes, and put in my blue contacts, and you don’t even know me. And then pen in more eyebrows. Fake, fake, fake, fake FAKE! Boys don’t like it when you fake it or do, they look at me, that's why I am Bi.

Party time Part 1 After school, we go to Maddie’s. When we were little, like freshman year and even some of the sophomore year, we would sometimes stay in her room and put on x-out and pluck out eyebrows into that fine little line, and color our hair with highlights, and order pizza, cramming down as much as we could eat. Those days are going, we can’t get fat. Now Jenny hardly eats anything, and if she does, she can hardly keep it down. I think maybe that’s what I get so lightheaded, I only eat like once a day now. Jenny back then had a little extra around the middle, and now you can see her ribs, she even has that two-defined line on her tummy that goes into her underwear. I remember sneaking around late at night in her hose stealing a cookie from the jar on the top shelf in the old wood cabinet, that is also where her mom would hide her cigarettes that Jenny loved also, and the condoms were in a trinity box on top of the fridge, I sorry but I find that hilarious. At that time, we would stretch out on one of her, old enormous worn-out couches and watch, TV or movies until we fell asleep in our nightshirts’-the TV in Maddie’s living room is like 80 inches it’s like being in a movie theater our legs tangled together under an enormous fleece blanket. Maddie and liv are always entangled more passionately than Jenny and me on the loveseat! Maddie has an ancient TV in her room from the 1990s. It sucks and is small, it’s one of those with the big back on it, and the color is green, like looking into a fish tank. It’s funny her mom and dad don’t have money blinds on the windows, yet they have a big ass TV. You can sometimes see the people in the next condo overlooking us like we can see them get busy in their room! Yet nothing beats the hot guy taking a leak in room 302, he looks to be in his late twenties. He takes the boxes off at 10 pm and we get a free show. He knows we can see him because he makes it look inflexible and you are no more personable. Jenny and we girls love to press upon the glass, and just have fun and be a little crazy, like lifting our nighties and flashing the goods. Facebook stocking gets boring quickly anymore, so some nights the webcam comes out too. After her mom and dad are asleep… I like it’s more fun to be bad! Like we all have profiles and fake names because none of us are eighteen yet. Any- how’s mine is ‘Angel Pink Wings 01’ Maddie goes by: ‘Mad kitty 69’ Jenny goes by: ‘Ms. Little Lover 14’ Liv goes by: ‘Olivia O 123’ Yet everyone knows her by Liv so that name is okay- I guess. We make good money- ‘Double Clicking the Mouse.’ You would not believe all the pervs on this cam the site, just wanting to see us doing it. Like old guys like our PE teacher! Man- that I didn’t even think about how to turn on a computer. Just like him, I guess they need too to see more of us close up. We have our checks mailed to Jenny's college boyfriend’s PO Box. Me this is what I do and yes- I come for you all, I just put in fake blue hair dye in, and have fake long lashes, and put in my blue contacts, and you don’t even know me. And then pen in more eyebrows. Fake, fake, fake, fake FAKE! Boys don’t like it when you fake it or do, they look at me, that's why I am Bi.

My mom dyed my hair red when I was little using vegetable dye so it wouldn't damage my hair.

was running out of valuable athletic clichés. Would beach volleyball say much about proposals for federal health care reform? Could I use mumblety-peg comparisons to explain the North American Free Trade Agreement negotiations? Golf, however, is ideal for these purposes. “Christian fundamentalists put a wicked slice in the Republican party platform.” “Somebody should replace the divot on the back of Al Gore’s head.” “Let’s go hit Congress with a stick.” I also wanted a sport with a lot of equipment. All truly American sports are equipment intensive. Basketball was strictly for hoop-over-the-barn-door Hoosiers and Jersey City Y’s until two-hundred-dollar gym shoes were invented. And synchronized swimming will never make it to network prime time because how often do you need new nose plugs? I’m an altruistic guy, in my own Reaganomics way. Sports gear purchases are about all that’s keeping the fragile U.S. economy alive, and you’d have to get into America’s Cup yachting or cross-country airplane racing to find a sport that needs more gear than golf. I’ve bought the shoes, hats, socks, pants, shirts, umbrellas, windbreakers, and plus fours—all in colors that Nirvana fans wouldn’t dye their hair. Then there are the drivers, irons, putters, and the special clubs: parking-lot wedge, back-of-the-tree mashie, nearby highway niblick. MasterCard has installed a plaque on the wall of its headquarters to commemorate my taking up golf.

Oh my God, Mom, really? Fake lashes. Fake lips. Fake boobs. Fake smile as soon as the cameras are on. Fake dye in your hair and fake paint on your nails and fake bleach on your teeth, and newsflash: everybody knows that a deviated septum is code for nose job. There’s literally nothing about you that’s real.

I spent the day stripping the purple out of my hair and redyeing it—Manic Panic Electric Tiger Lily. The jar promised it would glow under a black light, but somehow I didn’t think the grange hall was going to turn the lights off and get funky.

Wrinkles on my weather-beaten face and hands mirror untold stories of those in the frozen ground whose crosses and headstones bear the same aged features. Wrinkles of joy and creases of laughter join in to create the landscape of this face. With today’s world of Botox and ageless beauty, are we too quick to dye grey hair and remove the well-earned crow’s feet that portray remarkable lives lived?

This girl really convinced me to paint the banisters pastel pink. Fucking pink. Oh, who am I kidding complaining―we all know I’d dye my hair pink if she asked me to.

The first thing I did was dye my hair back to a Barbie platinum. (I’m a natural blonde, if you don’t count hair color.)

But the sheer relief I'd felt when my hairdresser stripped the pink dye from my hair and returned me to my natural blonde? It was staggering. Maybe because all those creepy barbie dolls had had pink hair. Or maybe because his captive slaves had been forced to dye their hair to match mine. Or maybe I just needed to feel like a truer version of me.

I extended my right leg, and the right arm, elbow down and in, wrist level with my sternum. She did the same. The backs of our wrists touched. Well-shaped nails, no wedding ring. Her skin was dense and fine-grained, taut over smooth muscle, and her bones slender. She looked the sort of woman who has studied ballet for twelve years. Her eyes were blue, the deep blue of still-wet-from-the-dye denim, with lighter flecks near pupils tight with concentration. Her hair was in a French twist. A French twist for the gym.

I started dyeing my hair brown when I was in 7th grade. My natural hair color is actually blonde.

Did you just insult Tanya and try to pit me against her by basically implying I’m better because I don’t dye my hair?” I demand. I look to the other girls, whose eyes are dancing. I feel strong with Ronnie and Tanya by my side. “Did this guy just ‘you’re not like other girls’ me?” “I think he did,” Tanya says, practically shaking with suppressed laughter. Wyatt shifts in his seat. “I just gave my opinion. Some helpful advice.” “News flash, Wyatt,” Ronnie says. “Your opinion sucks. And no one needs your advice.” “You do realize we don’t do our hair for you or any guy?” Tanya asks, an edge to her voice. “We don’t wear clothes or makeup for you. I do my hair because it makes me feel awesome and like a magical freaking mermaid. One who lures sailors into the sea and eats them.” She smiles, wicked, challenging, and so, so cool, still. “I couldn’t care less what you think.

There’s a reason why forty, fifty, and sixty don’t look the way they used to, and it’s not because of feminism, or better living through exercise. It’s because of hair dye.

The spiritual teacher Marianne Williamson has a wonderful quote explaining what happens when we allow our truth to speak for us, rather than giving in to the ego's relentless need to be heard: Ego says,"Once everything falls into place, I'll feel peace." Spirit says,"Find your peace, and then everything will fall into place.

He kept glancing at my hair, and that meant one of three things; he was trying to figure out if I dye, he had never seen a ginger before in his life, or he was wondering whether the carpet matched the drapes. Martinez, Katerina (2014-09-25). Midnight Magick: A Romantic Witch Suspense (Amber Lee Mysteries Book 1) (Kindle Locations 202-203). Katerina Martinez. Kindle Edition.

Be the best that you can be The scripture says God has given us the power to enjoy what’s appointed and allotted to us, which means I don’t have the power to enjoy your life. You may have more money, more gifts, more friends, and a better job. But if you put me in your life, I will not enjoy it. You are uniquely created to run your own race. Quit wishing you were someone else or thinking things such as, “If I had his talent…” If God wanted you to have his talent He would give it to you. Take what you have and develop it. Make the most of your gifts. Instead of thinking things such as, “If I had her looks…,” be grateful for the looks God gave you. That’s not an accident. The life you have is perfectly matched for you. Why don’t you get excited about your life? Be excited about your looks, your talent, and your personality. When you are passionate about who you are, you bring honor to God. That’s when God will breathe in your direction, and the seeds of greatness He’s planted on the inside will spring forth. Really, it’s an insult to God to wish you were someone else. You are saying, “God, why did you make me subpar? Why did you make me less than others?” God didn’t make anyone inferior. He didn’t create anyone to be second-class. You are a masterpiece. You are fully loaded and totally equipped for the race that’s designed for you. Your attitude should be: “I may not be as tall, as tan, or as talented as someone else, but that’s okay. Nobody will ever be a better me. I’m anointed to be me. I’m equipped to be me. And not only that, it’s also easy to be me.” It’s easy to be yourself. It’s easy to run your race because you’re equipped for what you need. But so many times, people try to be something they are not. I’ve known dark-skinned people who apply cream to try to be lighter. And I know light-skinned people who go to a tanning bed to try to be darker. I had an older lady touch my hair at a book signing recently. She said, “Joel, I wish I had that curly hair.” Nowadays you can do something about it. If you have straight hair and you want curly hair, you can perm it. If you have gray hair and you want brown hair, dye it. If you have no hair and you want hair, buy it!

I color my nails black and dye my hair red to wear, in metaphors, what my heart wants. The things I don‘t wish to remember, leaking from the tips of my fingers. The things I wish I won‘t forget, clinging to the roots of my hair.

His fingers moved deeper and I thought that the dye may have given me new nerve endings because every hair prickled up to his touch. "We're sensualists, aren't we?" "Sensualists?" He lowered his hand to my neck and pulled me so close our foreheads touched. "What do you mean?" I asked, the tips of my lips- just slightly- against his. "Sensualism..." he repeated in his bizarre accent. He didn't press his lips against mine and I didn't dare press back. We let our mouths push and graze as we spoke. "We are passionate, you and I. We know how to give in to our senses." Then I felt the full heat of his mouth on mine and I lapped him up greedily, my hands grabbing his face and hair and shoulders. I had never thought of myself as much of a sensualist. I was a writer, a rationalist in a sensualist world. I was always worrying about what other people thought of me and more often than not I liked the company of babies and dogs instead of humans my own age. But what's rational about a man's lips on you, when he's touching you in a way that makes you feel the exquisite pleasure of belonging? Everything else is a distraction. We tussled with our shirts off, until he pulled me on top of him and slid his hands from under my hair, to my shoulders, down to my arms, and finally to the place where the top of my pants met my skin. "Leather pants, you little minx. Shall we have an encore?" he asked. By now my hair was a wild mess. I was red from the wine. The lights were sort of dark, but not dark enough. I was wearing some Kiki Montparnasse lingerie, black lace with tiny bows that were at once sweet and not so sweet. You could even describe them as naughty. He let the tip of one finger move around the edge of my pants. When he got to the button, he made a flicking motion that stressed its hold. The critical button.

Semipermanent hair dye is about finding security within unlimited freedom. It's about recognizing what I have in my life and holding on to it, even if only at the base of a follicle, because I also believe in roots.

I can see what Justin sees in her. She’s the opposite of me. Ria is beautiful in a natural way. Her make-up is understated, her sorrel brown hair untouched by dye. She’s the antithesis of my tattooed eyebrows, eyeliner, lip-liner and artfully streaked blonde. She’s also way too nice, so is it any wonder my husband is drawn to her when I’ve done my best to push him away for the last twelve months or so?