Dye Your Hair Quotes

Did you say ‘yes’ to going out on a date with him?” Sally asked Jacque. “All I got to say is if she said no, she might not want to go to sleep tonight ‘cause I’m going to dye her hair blonde to compliment her being a dumb ass,” Jen told them. “Uh, Jen, you’re a blonde,” Jacque pointed out. “No, not really, God just got it wrong and it was too late to change it once He noticed.

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.

There are a few people out there with whom you fit just so, and, amazingly, you keep fitting just so even after you have growth spurts or lose weight or stop wearing high heels. You keep fitting after you have children or change religions or stop dyeing your hair or quit your job at Goldman Sachs and take up farming. Somehow, God is gracious enough to give us a few of those people, people you can stretch into, people who don't go away, and whom you wouldn't want to go away, even if they offered.

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

The Ad♥rkable Manifesto 1. We have nothing to declare but our dorkiness. 2. Jumble sales are our shopping malls. 3. Better to make cookies than be a cookie-cutter. 4. Suffering doesn’t necessarily improve you but it does give you something to blog about. 5. Experiment with Photoshop, hair dye, nail polish and cupcake flavours but never drugs. 6. Don’t follow leaders, be one. 7. Necessity is the mother of customisation. 8. Puppies make everything better. 9. Quiet girls rarely make history. 10. Never shield your oddness, but wear your oddness like a shield.

Sometimes, if you want to be happy, you've got to run away to Bath and marry a punk rocker. Sometimes you've got to dye your hair cobalt blue, or wander remote islands in Sicily, or cook your way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking in a year, for no very good reason.

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.

All I got to say is if she said no, shemight not want to go to sleep tonight'cause I'm going to dye her hair blonde to compliment her being a dumb ass," Jen told them. "Uh, Jen, you're a blonde," Jacque pointed out. "No, not really, God just got it wrong and it was too late to change it once He noticed.

You know, I found a gray hair the other day. I almost broke the sound barrier rushing to the pharmacy to get some dye. Beth snorted. Oh please! You're a blonde-no one can see gray hair up there. Now, you get one down under, and then you can panic.

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.

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

Cole!" Cassandra smacked him on the shoulder. "Wha-?" When he opened his mouth all you could see was half-chewed goo. "How old are you?" I demanded. I threw shrimp at him and it got stuck in his tangle of wig hair. Bergman fished it out, wiped it off, and put it back on the serving dish. "Now, thats disgusting," said Cassandra. "Children!" Vayl's voice boomed in our ears, loud and sudden enough to make us all jump guiltily. "I trust you are all preforming actual work right now." "Chill out, Vayl," I replied. "Bergman is just conducting and experiment to see how vampires respond to ingesting brown hair dye." "That makes me curious, Vayl," said Cole in a sticky, goodie-between-the-gums voice that reminded me of Winnie the Pooh after a major honey binge. "Have you ever colored your hair? You know blonds have more fun." "Not when they are in the hospital.

Take you picture off the wall And carry it away Dye your hair the shades of fall Don't let time turn it to gray Don't think of me, I'll be all right Seems I've always done okay Just give me one more kiss good night For the last time, turn away

Arthur Less is the first homosexual ever to grow old. That is, at least, how he feels at times like these. Here, in this tub, he should be twenty-five or thirty, a beautiful young man naked in a bathtub. Enjoying the pleasures of life. How dreadful if someone came upon naked Less today: pink to his middle, gray to his scalp, like those old double erasers for pencil and ink. He has never seen another gay man age past fifty, none except Robert. He met them all at forty or so but never saw them make it much beyond; they died of AIDS, that generation. Less’s generation often feels like the first to explore the land beyond fifty. How are they meant to do it? Do you stay a boy forever, and dye your hair and diet to stay lean and wear tight shirts and jeans and go out dancing until you drop dead at eighty? Or do you do the opposite—do you forswear all that, and let your hair go gray, and wear elegant sweaters that cover your belly, and smile on past pleasures that will never come again? Do you marry and adopt a child? In a couple, do you each take a lover, like matching nightstands by the bed, so that sex will not vanish entirely? Or do you let sex vanish entirely, as heterosexuals do? Do you experience the relief of letting go of all that vanity, anxiety, desire, and pain?

Dye your hair, certainly. But what can you do for your face?

Now if you're not „hot”, you are expected to work on it until you are. It's like when you renovate a house and you're legally required to leave just one of the original walls standing. If you don't have a good body you have down to a neutral shape, then bolt on some breast implants, replace your teeth, dye you hair, and call yourself the Playmate of the Year. How do we survive this? How do we teach our daughters and our gay sons that they are good enough the way they are? We have to lead by example.

The energy you drew on so extravagantly when you were a kid, the energy you thought would never exhaust itself -- that slipped away somewhere between eighteen and twenty-four, to be replaced by something much duller, something as bogus as coke high: purpose, maybe, or goals, or whatever rah-rah Junior Chamber of Commerce word you wanted to use. It was no big deal; it didn't go all at once with a bang. And maybe, Richie thought, that's the scary part. How you don't stop being a kid all at once, with a big explosive bang, like one of that clown's trick balloons with the Burma-Shave slogans on the sides. The kid in you just leaked out, like the air out of a tire. And one day you looked in the mirror and there was a grownup looking back at you. You could go on wearing blue-jeans, you could keep going to Springsteen and Seger concerts, you could dye your hair, but that was a grownup's face in the mirror just the same. It all happened while you were asleep, maybe, like a visit from a Tooth Fairy.

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.

In these days of physical fitness, hair dye, and plastic surgery, you can live much of your life without feeling or even looking old. But then one day, your knee goes, or your shoulder, or your back, or your hip. Your hot flashes come to an end; things droop. Spots appear. Your cleavage looks like a peach pit. If your elbows faced forward, you would kill yourself. You’re two inches shorter than you used to be. You’re ten pounds fatter and you cannot lose a pound of it to save your soul. Your hands don’t work as well as they once did and you can’t open bottles, jars, wrappers, and especially those gadgets that are encased tightly in what seems to be molded Mylar. If you were stranded on a desert island and your food were sealed in plastic packaging, you would starve to death. You take so many pills in the morning you don’t have room for breakfast. You lose close friends and discover one of the worst truths of old age: they’re irreplaceable. People who run four miles a day and eat only nuts and berries drop dead. People who drink a quart of whiskey and smoke two packs of cigarettes a day drop dead. You are suddenly in a lottery, the ultimate game of chance, and someday your luck will run out. Everybody dies. There’s nothing you can do about it. Whether or not you eat six almonds a day. Whether or not you believe in God.

The following “Rules for Female Teachers” were posted by the school board of one town in Massachusetts: Do not get married. Do not leave town at any time without permission of the school board. Do not keep company with men. Be home between the hours of 8 P.M. and 6 A.M. Do not loiter downtown in ice cream stores. Do not smoke. Do not get into a carriage with any man except your father or brother. Do not dress in bright colors. Do not dye your hair. Do not wear any dress more than two inches above the ankle.

You could go on wearing bluejeans, you could keep going to Springsteen and Seger concerts, you could dye your hair, but that was a grownup’s face in the mirror just the same.

And if you gain weight, lose weight, dye your hair, shave your head, or change in anyway, I want a portrait of it. I want all of you. All your phases, all your transitions.” He

I’ve always said either dye your hair your natural color or go all gray. Keep salt and pepper for the table.

The energy you drew on so extravagantly when you were a kid, the energy you thought would never exhaust itself—that slipped away somewhere between eighteen and twenty-four, to be replaced by something much duller, something as bogus as a coke high: purpose, maybe, or goals, or whatever rah-rah Junior Chamber of Commerce word you wanted to use. It was no big deal; it didn’t go all at once, with a bang. And maybe, Richie thought, that’s the scary part. How you don’t stop being a kid all at once, with a big explosive bang, like one of that clown’s trick balloons with the Burma-Shave slogans on the sides. The kid in you just leaked out, like the air out of a tire. And one day you looked in the mirror and there was a grownup looking back at you. You could go on wearing bluejeans, you could keep going to Springsteen and Seger concerts, you could dye your hair, but that was a grownup’s face in the mirror just the same. It all happened while you were asleep, maybe, like a visit from the Tooth Fairy.

The kid in you just leaked out, like the air out of a tire. And one day you looked in the mirror and there was a grownup looking back at you. You could go on wearing bluejeans, you could keep going to Springsteen and Seger concerts, you could dye your hair, but that was a grownup’s face in the mirror just the same. It all happened while you were asleep, maybe, like a visit from the Tooth Fairy.

Shall I tell you all about her, cat? She is very beautiful – your mistress,’ he murmured drowsily, ‘and her hair is heavy as burnished gold. I could paint her – not on canvas – for I should need shades and tones and hues and dyes more splendid than the iris of a splendid rainbow. I could only paint her with closed eyes, for in dreams alone can such colours as I need be found. For her eyes, I must have azure from skies untroubled by a cloud – the skies of dreamland. For her lips, roses from the palaces of slumberland, and for her brow, snow-drifts from mountains which tower in fantastic pinnacles to the moons – oh, much higher than our moon here

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.

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.

Read. You should read Bukowski and Ferlinghetti, read Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton, and listen to Coltrane, Nina Simone, Hank Williams, Loretta Lynn, Son House, Robert Johnson, Howlin’ Wolf, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Miles Davis, Lou Reed, Nick Drake, Bobbie Gentry, George Jones, Jimmy Reed, Odetta, Funkadelic, and Woody Guthrie. Drive across America. Ride trains. Fly to countries beyond your comfort zone. Try different things. Join hands across the water. Different foods. New tasks. Different menus and tastes. Talk with the guy who’s working in construction on your block, who’s working on the highway you’re traveling on. Speak with your neighbors. Get to know them. Practice civil disobedience. Try new resistance. Be part of the solution, not the problem. Don’t litter the earth, it’s the only one you have, learn to love her. Care for her. Learn another language. Trust your friends with kindness. You will need them one day. You will need earth one day. Do not fear death. There are worse things than death. Do not fear the reaper. Lie in the sunshine but from time to time let the neon light your way. ZZ Top, Jefferson Airplane, Spirit. Get a haircut. Dye your hair pink or blue. Do it for you. Wear eyeliner. Your eyes are the windows to your soul. Show them off. Wear a feather in your cap. Run around like the Mad Hatter. Perhaps he had the answer. Visit the desert. Go to the zoo. Go to a county fair. Ride the Ferris wheel. Ride a horse. Pet a pig. Ride a donkey. Protest against war. Put a peace symbol on your automobile. Drive a Volkswagen. Slow down for skateboarders. They might have the answers. Eat gingerbread men. Pray to the moon and the stars. God is out there somewhere. Don’t worry. You’ll find out where soon enough. Dance. Even if you don’t know how to dance. Read The Four Agreements. Read the Bible. Read the Bhagavad Gita. Join nothing. It won’t help. No games, no church, no religion, no yellow-brick road, no way to Oz. Wear beads. Watch a caterpillar in the sun.

A farmer’s son brought a black powder from city. Gifting it to his father, he said, “This powder is called Hair Dye. It can make you look young like the movie actors.” The farmer could not sleep that night. In the morning, he returned the powder to his son and said, “I can’t use this powder. If I become young, I will stop getting the monthly old age pension.” Your soul can shift to a better version of you or a completely different character. Your question, “But what will happen to this character” is like the apprehensions of that farmer. If your attachment to this character is strong, you will come back in this character. You will not shift permanently to some other character.

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.

There are a few people out there with whom you fit just so, and, amazingly, you keep fitting just so even after you have growth spurts or lose weight or stop wearing high heels. You keep fitting after you have children or change religions or stop dyeing your hair or quit your job at Goldman Sachs and take up farming. Somehow, God is gracious enough to give us a few of these people, people you can stretch into, people who don't go away, and whom you wouldn't want to go away, even if they offered to.

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.

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.

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.

that’s tragic. he was such a happy kid.” showered cold to make his pants fit would rather stand up straight than sit didn’t cry when his parents split he was such a happy kid now their words are what’s killing him taking pills, hoping they will stick his grades have dropped his friends are gone paints his nails and dyes his hair parents says it’s a teenage fit ’cause he is such a happy kid how come you tell me who to be ”aim big thats all you’ll need” money is what drives the world ”become a lawyer thats your true worth” i won’t try to fit your needs i am not who you think because i’m not a happy kid

Richie had felt a mad, exhilarating kind of energy growing in the room […] He thought he recognized the feeling from childhood, when he had felt it every day and had come to take it merely as a matter of course. He supposed that, if he had ever thought about that deep-running aquifer of energy as a kid, he would have simply dismissed it as a fact of life, something that would always be there, like the color of his eyes or his disgusting hammertoes. Well, that hadn’t turned out to be true. The energy you drew on so extravagantly when you were a kid, the energy you thought would never exhaust itself- that slipped away somewhere between eighteen and twenty-four, to be replaced by something much duller, something as bogus as a coke-high: purpose, maybe, or goals, or whatever rah-rah Junior Chamber of Commerce word you wanted to use. It was no big deal; it didn’t go all at once, with a bang. And maybe, Richie thought, that’s the scary part. How you don’t stop being a kid all at once, with a big explosive bang, like one of that clown’s trick balloons with the Burma-Shave slogans on the side. The kind in you just leaked out, like the air out of a tire. And one day you looked in the mirror and there was a grown-up looking back at you. You could go on wearing blue jeans, you could keep going to Springsteen and Seger concerts, you gould dye your hair, but that was a grown-ups face in the mirror just the same.

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.

That’s one of the harsh realities I learned early on about the modeling industry: ultimately, your body doesn’t really belong to you. It belongs to the client. Since they’re paying, they figure they can do pretty much whatever they want to you. They can curl your hair, straighten it, dye it, cut it –even shave it. I’ve seen hair extensions being pulled out by the roots and smoke billowing out of flat irons while the hair inside gets singed and fried. I’ve watched models squeeze their feet into shoes so small their feet literally bled, and I’ve seen false eyelashes torn off so quickly that the natural lashes came off with them. Modeling may look glamorous on the outside, but believe me, beauty can be an ugly business.

At some point in life-sometimes in youth, sometimes late-each of us is due to awaken to our mortality. There are so many triggers: a glance in a mirror at your sagging jowls, graying hair, stooping shoulders; the march of birthdays, especially those round decades-fifty, sixty, seventy; meeting a friend you have not seen in a long while and being shocked at how he or she has aged; seeing old photographs of yourself and those long dead who peopled your childhood; encountering Mister Death in a dream. What do you feel when you have such experiences? What do you do with them? Do you plunge into frenetic activity to burn off the anxiety and avoid the subject? Try to remove wrinkles with cosmetic surgery or dye your hair? Decide to stay thirty-nine for a few more years? Distract yourself quickly with work and everyday life routine? Forget all such experiences? Ignore your dreams? I urge you not to distract yourself. Instead, savor awakening. Take advantage of it. Pause as you stare into the photograph of the younger you. Let the poignant moment sweep over you and linger a bit; taste the sweetness of it as well as the bitterness. Keep in mind the advantage of remaining aware of death, of hugging its shadow to you. Such awareness can integrate the darkness with your spark of life and enhance your life while you still have it. The way to value life, the way to feel compassion for others, the way to love anything with greatest depth is to be aware that these experiences are destined to be lost.

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.

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.

He just wanted a walk- and a few books. It had been an age since he'd even had free time to read, let alone do so for pleasure. But there she was. His mate. She was nothing like Jesminda. Jesminda had been all laughter and mischief, too wild and free to be contained by the country life that she'd been born into. She had teased him, taunted him- seduced him so thoroughly that he hadn't wanted anything but her. She'd seen him not as a High Lord's seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him. Elain had been... thrown at him. He glanced toward the tea service spread on a low-lying table nearby. 'I'm going to assume that one of those cups belongs to your sister.' Indeed, there was a discarded book in the viper's usual chair. Cauldron help the male who wound up shackled to her. 'Do you mind if I held myself to the other?' He tried to sound casual- comfortable. Even as his heart raced and raced, so swift he thought he might vomit on the very expensive, very old carpet. From Sangravah, if the patterns and rich dyes were any indication. Rhysand was many things, but he certainly had good taste. The entire place had been decorated with thought and elegance, with a penchant for comfort over stuffiness. He didn't want to admit he liked it. Didn't want to admit he found the city beautiful. That the circle of people who now claimed to be Feyre's new family... It was what, long ago, he'd once thought life at Tamlin's court would be. An ache like a blow to the chest went through him, but he crossed the rug. Forced his hands to be steady while he poured himself a cup of tea and sat in the chair opposite Nesta's vacated one. 'There's a plate of biscuits. Would you like one?' He didn't expect her to answer, and he gave himself all of one more minute before he'd rise from this chair and leave, hopefully avoiding Nesta's return. But sunlight on gold caught his eye- and Elain slowly turned from her vigil at the window. He had not seen her entire face since that day in Hybern. Then, it had been drawn and terrified, then utterly blank and numb, her hair plastered to her head, her lips blue with cold and shock. Looking at her now... She was pale, yes. The vacancy still glazing her features. But he couldn't breathe as she faced him fully. She was the most beautiful female he'd ever seen. Betrayal, queasy and oily, slid through his veins. He'd said the same to Jesminda once. But even as shame washed through him, the words, the sense chanted, Mine. You are mine, and I am yours. Mate.

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.

At the time that he had seriously begun to consolidate his organization, Parker was working in a custom photo lab. The reader who is not much taken by audiovisual pastimes may have a deficient picture of that place where Parker was employed; or perhaps not so much a deficient picture--the dyes faded, shoddily spotted, brutishly burned in and doltishly dodged by subhuman technicians under the glare of the enlargers--as an image which had been misfiled in the archives of the memory, representing instead one of those bleak Photo Drive-Ups and Presto Printses located nowadays on the corner of almost every large parking lot, in which the clerks wait sadly behind their glass counters, but no one comes in, and the air becomes darker and darker over the course of the morning as a result of exhaust fumes (there goes another brain cell; ping! - THAT thought will never be completed now); and the pink chubby tots smiling at your from the walls in sample enlargements become steadily more grimy, and by the lunch break they are brown; and the day ticks off on the loud digital clock; and then finally a car creeps into the lot, and a popeyed couple locks that vehicle doors listlessly; they request a reprint of a washed-out snapshot of their son who was killed in the Indian Wars, and they go away; and after a long time here comes a slick-haired teenager who once took a few pix of his girlfriend holding a balloon at the zoo in front of the monkey cage on a dirty overcast day, and the clerk can tell just by looking at this customer that they won’t come out, because the guy’s a loser if the clerk knows anything at all about losers and in fact he knows a hell of a lot about losers because why else would he be stuck with this job?

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.

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.

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 your 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.

Ad – Add               Ail – Ale               Air – Heir               Are - R               Ate - Eight               Aye - Eye - I                 B                            B – Be - Bee               Base - Bass               Bi – Buy - By – Bye               Bite - Byte               Boar - Bore               Board - Bored                 C               C – Sea - See               Capital – Capitol               Chord – Cord               Coarse - Course               Core - Corps               Creak – Creek               Cue – Q - Queue                 D               Dam - Damn               Dawg – Dog               Days – Daze               Dew – Do – Due               Die – Dye               Dual - Duel                 E               Earn – Urn               Elicit – Illicit               Elude - Illude               Ex – X                 F               Fat – Phat               Faze - Phase               Feat - Feet               Find – Fined               Flea – Flee               Forth - Fourth                 G               Gait – Gate               Genes – Jeans               Gnawed - Nod               Grate – Great                 H               Hair - Hare               Heal - Heel               Hear - Here               Heard - Herd               Hi - High               Higher – Hire               Hoarse - Horse               Hour - Our                 I               Idle - Idol               Ill – Ill               In – Inn               Inc – Ink               IV – Ivy                 J               Juggler - Jugular                 K               Knead - Need               Knew - New               Knight - Night               Knot – Naught - Not               Know - No               Knows - Nose                 L               Lead – Led               Lie - Lie               Light – Lite               Loan - Lone                 M               Mach – Mock               Made - Maid               Mane – Main               Meat - Meet               Might - Mite               Mouse - Mouth                 N               Naval - Navel               None - Nun                 O               Oar - Or – Ore               One - Won                 P               Paced – Paste               Pail – Pale                            Pair - Pear               Peace - Piece               Peak - Peek               Peer - Pier               Pray - Prey                 Q               Quarts - Quartz                 R               Rain - Reign               Rap - Wrap               Read - Red               Real - Reel               Right - Write               Ring - Wring                 S               Scene - Seen               Seas – Sees - Seize               Sole – Soul               Some - Sum               Son - Sun               Steal – Steel               Suite - Sweet                 T               T - Tee               Tail – Tale               Team – Teem               Their – There - They’re               Thyme - Time               To – Too - Two                 U               U - You                 V               Vale - Veil               Vain – Vane - Vein               Vary – Very               Verses - Versus                 W               Waive - Wave               Ware – Wear - Where               Wait - Weight               Waist - Waste               Which - Witch               Why – Y               Wood - Would                 X                 Y               Yoke - Yolk               Yore - Your – You’re                 Z

I’m just curious, why did you choose to dye your hair blue?” as opposed to “Why is your hair blue?

What if they find the car?” “They’ll find it, and they’ll throw a blanket over Panama City Beach. You’ve got to be careful. After dark, try to sneak into a drugstore and buy some hair dye. Cut your hair extremely short and dye it blond.” “Blond!” “Or red. I don’t give a damn.

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.

Sometimes, she wanted quite furiously to hurt him; now, for instance, to lean forward and snap at him: ‘Why do you dye your hair? I know you do. In this light it looks utterly horrible.

When you and your daughter pass a teenager with a ring in her nose and purple hair and you say, “What an idiot,” your daughter knows what you’re doing, even if you’d deny it to yourself. You’re sending out a message that she’d better not even dream of piercing her body or dyeing her hair. She knows you’re trying to persuade her, and she may react by resolving not to be persuaded.

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.

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.

So, you're saying you dye your hair because you think it's... lazy?" He cocked his head in amusement. She shrugged. "Not lazy, more indecisive.

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.

The next time you go to the supermarket, take a moment to scan the ingredients list on the foods you buy. A good rule of thumb: Anything with more than five ingredients probably contains stuff that’s not food. You probably already know that high-fructose corn syrup is a man-made sweetener that many researchers believe is worse for you than sugar, but you might not be on the lookout for some other additives that are in many, many packaged foods. Stuff like BHA (butylated hydroxyanisole, a preservative made from petroleum), sodium nitrate (an antimicrobial substance), silicon dioxide (it’s sand!), cellulose (it’s wood chips!), L-cysteine (a dough conditioner made most often from human hair), tartrazine (a yellow food dye linked to learning and concentration disorders), and about three thousand other additives that can be legally used to “enhance” our food.

In 1900 there were 500,000 women office workers—in 1870 there had been 19,000. Women were switchboard operators, store workers, nurses. Half a million were teachers. The teachers formed a Teachers League that fought against the automatic firing of women who became pregnant. The following “Rules for Female Teachers” were posted by the school board of one town in Massachusetts: Do not get married. Do not leave town at any time without permission of the school board. Do not keep company with men. Be home between the hours of 8 P.M. and 6 A.M. Do not loiter downtown in ice cream stores. Do not smoke. Do not get into a carriage with any man except your father or brother. Do not dress in bright colors. Do not dye your hair. Do not wear any dress more than two inches above the ankle. The

When existential depression attacks without warning, your father dyes his hair.

Jane bit her lip. ‘You’re thinking about Mrs. Behan, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘I did apologise.’ ‘I know, and that the question of the real colour of her hair was only to be expected if one insists on dyeing grey-brown hair that very metallic shade of red. But it’s a known middle-class fact that ladies do not dye their hair. Only actresses and prostitutes dye their hair.

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.

the evil genius at play here is simply the flawed reality of human nature. And perhaps it’s the humans who have remembered incorrectly, because that’s a human trait. You and your friend remember clearly that it snowed at Wilderness Camp and you all had a snowball fight—but another friend contradicts you, saying there was only a dusting of snow, not enough for making snowballs, and now your memory is less certain. Or you vividly remember your friend dyeing her hair pink just before graduation, but she tells you years later that it was after graduation and even shows you a picture to prove it. Yes, human memory is also a simulation.

Seal with a seal of gold The scroll of a life unrolled; Swathe him deep in his purple stole; Ashes of diamonds, crystalled coal, Drops of gold in each scented fold. Crimson wings of the Little Death, Stir his hair with your silken breath; Flaming wings of sins to be, Splendid pinions of prophecy, Smother his eyes with hues and dyes, While the white moon spins and the winds arise, And the stars drip through the skies. Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Seal his sight and stifle his breath, Cover his breast with the gemmed shroud pressed; From north to north, from west to west, Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Till the white moon reels in the cracking skies, And the ghosts of God arise.

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.

The henna plant has been used since several eras ago for dyeing and staining, be it for skin, nails, hair or materials such as cloth.

Chicago honors a saint: Patrick. But unlike the San Giovanni Festival honoring John the Baptist, St. Patrick’s Day is less about the saint, and more about dyeing everything green--hair, beer, the Chicago River--watching the parade take over the city, and getting wasted. You even get physically assaulted if you don’t wear something green the entire day. You’re supposed to just get pinched, but some of the guys at school take it a little too far. And if you forget to wear green, you can’t get by with the excuse that your underwear is green, because they’re not shy about asking for proof.

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!

Where’s Marks? You didn’t mention her.” “She is well, but . . .” Win paused, obviously searching for words. “She had a small mishap today, and she’s rather upset. Of course, any woman would be, considering the nature of the problem. Therefore, Leo, I insist that you not tease her. And if you do, Merripen has already said that he will give you such a drubbing—” “Oh, please. As if I’d care enough to notice some problem of Marks’s.” He paused. “What is it?” Win frowned. “I wouldn’t tell you, except that the problem is obvious and you’ll notice immediately. You see, Miss Marks dyes her hair, which I never knew before, but apparently—” “Dyes her hair?” Poppy repeated in surprise. “But why? She’s not old.” “I have no idea. She won’t explain why. But there are some unfortunate women who start to gray in their twenties, and perhaps she’s one of them.” “Poor thing,” Poppy said. “It must embarrass her. She’s certainly taken great pains to keep it secret.” “Yes, poor thing,” Leo said, sounding not at all sympathetic. In fact, his eyes fairly danced with glee. “Tell us what happened, Win.” “We think the London apothecary who mixed her usual solution must have gotten the proportions wrong. Because when she applied the dye this morning, the result was . . . well, distressing.” “Did it fall out?” Leo asked. “Is she bald?” “No, not at all. It’s just that her hair is . . . green.” To look at Leo’s face, one would think it was Christmas morning. “What shade of green?” “Leo, hush,” Win said urgently. “You are not to torment her. It’s been a very trying experience. We mixed a peroxide paste to take the green out, and I don’t know if it worked or not. Amelia was helping her to wash it a little while ago. And no matter what the result is, you are to say nothing.” “You’re telling me that tonight, Marks will be sitting at the supper table with hair that matches the asparagus, and I’m not supposed to remark on it?” He snorted. “I’m not that strong.” “Please, Leo,” Poppy murmured, touching his arm. “If it were one of your sisters, you wouldn’t mock.” “Do you think that little shrew would have any mercy on me, were the situations reversed?” He rolled his eyes as he saw their expressions. “Very well, I’ll try not to jeer. But I make no promises.” Leo sauntered toward the house in no apparent hurry. He didn’t deceive either of his sisters. “How long do you think it will take him to find her?” Poppy asked Win. “Two, perhaps three minutes,” Win replied, and they both sighed.

If you try going silver and don’t like it, you are just one box of hair color or one salon appointment away from dyeing it back again.

Dyes, fragrances, foaming agents, heavy metals as stabilizers and texturizers, tanners, inks, alcohols, and hundreds of other potential poisons are frequently included in cosmetic formulas. Nail products, hair products, deodorants—all the ordinary products in your bathroom cabinet and makeup kit as well as the ones in your neighborhood beauty salon and nail spa have chemical

Robyn hit me with her worst: the cool, calm anger of someone who would have no problem sneaking pink hair dye into your shampoo.

Preoccupation is the enemy of good parenting. And the worst part? Kids can sense it. They are simultaneously sponges and mirrors, and unflattering ones at that. When they act out, make a mess, bite their brother, dye their hair pink—that’s what is happening. They sense your energy and are responding to