Facial Beauty Quotes

The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole,but true beauty in a Woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she knows.

The beauty of the human soul Is not the pretty face. It’s found within the heart and hands Of those who look — and stay.

Séverin crossed his arms. “Zofia, tell him he’s pretty.” Zofia didn’t look up from her tea. “I am personally undecided, but if we’re assessing based on objectivity, then according to the principles of the golden ratio, also known as phi, which is approximately 1.618, your facial beauty is mathematically pleasing.

Never presume to know a person based on the one dimensional window of the internet. A soul can’t be defined by critics, enemies or broken ties with family or friends. Neither can it be explained by posts or blogs that lack facial expressions, tone or insight into the person’s personality and intent. Until people “get that”, we will forever be a society that thinks Beautiful Mind was a spy movie and every stranger is really a friend on Facebook.

you begin to talk like me your facial expressions like my own this is when i knew you were mine

A homely face does not guarantee a homely character. Appearance is the body, character is the spirit, and the soul bears the most vital qualities.

Sign is a live, contemporaneous, visual-gestural language and consists of hand shapes, hand positioning, facial expressions, and body movements. Simply put, it is for me the most beautiful, immediate, and expressive of languages, because it incorporates the entire human body.

Why women don't have facial hair. God doesn't cover up anything that looks beautiful.

There was a sort of beauty that only comes with age. A whole life engraved into facial wrinkles.

Destroying your mirrors leaves your facial blemishes intact.

I am convinced that "all ladies are not the same". Some have pretty faces, others have beautiful characters. Some have facial make-ups, others have mental make-ups!

A man should never be judged by his skill, talent, colour, financial or political status, facial beauty and level of education but by the quality of his character.

If hard work and knowledge were respected instead of facial beauty, money, and power; then the world could have changed for good.

Take a careful look around you the next time you’re walking in a crowded area. If you pay close attention, you’ll see women of myriad body shapes and sizes, hair colors, facial features, and ages. It’s easy to forget the actual landscape of women’s appearances, because the range of what we see in media is so narrow.

The beauty of a woman is not in her facial makeup but in the kindness of her soul.

Excuse me while I throw this down, I’m old and cranky and tired of hearing the idiocy repeated by people who ought to know better. Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing. Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever. Real women start their lives as baby girls. And as baby boys. And as babies of indeterminate biological sex whose bodies terrify their doctors and families into making all kinds of very sudden decisions. Real women have big hands and small hands and long elegant fingers and short stubby fingers and manicures and broken nails with dirt under them. Real women have armpit hair and leg hair and pubic hair and facial hair and chest hair and sexy moustaches and full, luxuriant beards. Real women have none of these things, spontaneously or as the result of intentional change. Real women are bald as eggs, by chance and by choice and by chemo. Real women have hair so long they can sit on it. Real women wear wigs and weaves and extensions and kufi and do-rags and hairnets and hijab and headscarves and hats and yarmulkes and textured rubber swim caps with the plastic flowers on the sides. Real women wear high heels and skirts. Or not. Real women are feminine and smell good and they are masculine and smell good and they are androgynous and smell good, except when they don’t smell so good, but that can be changed if desired because real women change stuff when they want to. Real women have ovaries. Unless they don’t, and sometimes they don’t because they were born that way and sometimes they don’t because they had to have their ovaries removed. Real women have uteruses, unless they don’t, see above. Real women have vaginas and clitorises and XX sex chromosomes and high estrogen levels, they ovulate and menstruate and can get pregnant and have babies. Except sometimes not, for a rather spectacular array of reasons both spontaneous and induced. Real women are fat. And thin. And both, and neither, and otherwise. Doesn’t make them any less real. There is a phrase I wish I could engrave upon the hearts of every single person, everywhere in the world, and it is this sentence which comes from the genius lips of the grand and eloquent Mr. Glenn Marla: There is no wrong way to have a body. I’m going to say it again because it’s important: There is no wrong way to have a body. And if your moral compass points in any way, shape, or form to equality, you need to get this through your thick skull and stop with the “real women are like such-and-so” crap. You are not the authority on what “real” human beings are, and who qualifies as “real” and on what basis. All human beings are real. Yes, I know you’re tired of feeling disenfranchised. It is a tiresome and loathsome thing to be and to feel. But the tit-for-tat disenfranchisement of others is not going to solve that problem. Solidarity has to start somewhere and it might as well be with you and me

Lark was beautiful. And not only objectively, based on facial geometry or social consensus. Beautiful to me. Utterly captivating.

Suddenly the look in Norah’s eyes changed. The nervous air she had walked in with, lifted from her face. Her eyes closed slightly and then opened wide, revealing pools of chocolate confidence. The change in her facial expression forced me to take a breath. How could you not love a creature like this — Angel by day, vixen by night.

His face, brooding and saturnine in the shadows, could have belonged to some lesser god in a realm far below Olympus. Powerful, secretive, enigmatic. He turned his head until his lips nudged her palm with a tenderness she knew somehow was reserved for her alone.

Pandora approached Gabriel in a direct way no other young woman of her rank would have dared. She had extraordinary eyes, dark blue rimmed with black, like sapphires charred at the edges. A pair of winged black brows stood out sharply against her snowdrop complexion. She smelled like night air, and white flowers, and a hint of feminine sweat. The fragrance aroused him, all his muscles tightening like bowstrings.

The alley is a pitch for about twenty women leaning in doorways, chain-smoking. In their shiny open raincoats, short skirts, cheap boots, and high-heeled shoes they watch the street with hooded eyes, like spies in a B movie. Some are young and pretty, and some are older, and some of them are very old, with facial expressions ranging from sullen to wry. Most of the commerce is centred on the slightly older women, as if the majority of the clients prefer experience and worldliness. The younger, prettier girls seem to do the least business, apparent innocence being only a minority preference, much as it is for the aging crones in the alley who seem as if they’ve been standing there for a thousand years. In the dingy foyer of the hotel is an old poster from La Comédie Française, sadly peeling from the all behind the desk. Cyrano de Bergerac, it proclaims, a play by Edmond Rostand. I will stand for a few moments to take in its fading gaiety. It is a laughing portrait of a man with an enormous nose and a plumed hat. He is a tragic clown whose misfortune is his honour. He is a man entrusted with a secret; an eloquent and dazzling wit who, having successfully wooed a beautiful woman on behalf of a friend cannot reveal himself as the true author when his friend dies. He is a man who loves but is not loved, and the woman he loves but cannot reach is called Roxanne. That night I will go to my room and write a song about a girl. I will call her Roxanne. I will conjure her unpaid from the street below the hotel and cloak her in the romance and the sadness of Rostand’s play, and her creation will change my life.

She was beautiful. Before, she had been pretty and gorgeous, lively and smiley, all red hair and perfect skin and quick movements. Now her eyes were deeper. He could fall into her face forever and happily drown there, pulled into her depths. There were worlds in her mind that were only just forming before.

Within the aesthetic system of the High Renaissance, pointed noses and fine lips were typically associated with a refined facial beauty. At the same time, well-formed, proportionate figures represented the height of bodily beauty. This aesthetic pairing led to the degradation of the African face and the exaltation of the African body.

Why women have no facial hair. God does not cover up anything that looks beautiful.

Isabella made a conscious effort to keep from her facial features the thought that her cousin had a few attics to let.

The gawk was full of brazen curiousity, pity, and fear, every unattractive human emotion rolled into one unflattering facial expression.

I love the waves of your lips The symmetries of your eyes The gazes The smiles

GAWKING IS A LOOK stronger than a stare. The gawk was full of brazen curiosity, pity, and fear, every unattractive human emotion rolled into one unflattering facial expression.

We like or dislike too readily, we are blinded by the race, sex and age of the one studied, and, most fatal of all, we judge by standards of beauty that are totally misleading. The sweetest face may hide the most arrant egoist, for facial beauty has very little to do with the nature behind the face. In fact, facial make-up is more influenced by diet, disease and racial tendency than by character.

During their brief encounter in the music room, Cassandra had been too flustered to notice much about him. He'd been so very odd, jumping out like that and offering to marry a complete stranger. Also, she'd been absolutely mortified for him to have overheard her tearful disclosure two West, especially the part about having her dress altered. But now it was impossible not to notice how very good-looking he was, tall and elegantly lean, with dark hair, a clear, fair complexion, and thick brows sett at a diabolical slant. If she were to judge his features individually- the long nose, the wide mouth, the narrow eyes, the sharply angled cheeks and jaw- she wouldn't have expected him to be this attractive. But somehow when it was all put together, his looks were striking and interesting in a way she'd remember far longer than conventional handsomeness.

my eyes make mirrors out of every reflective surface they pass searching for something beautiful looking my ears fish for compliments and praise but no matter how far they go looking nothing is enough for me i go to clinics and department stores for pretty potions and new techniques i've tried the lasers i've tried the facials i've tried the blades and expensive creams for a hopeful minute they fill me make me glow from cheek to cheek but as soon as i feel beautiful their magic disappears suddenly where am i supposed to find it i am willing to pay any price for a beauty that makes heads turn every moment day and night - a never-ending search

Just because she saw that the vagaries of capitalism, patriarchy, gender norms, or consumerism contributed to facial dysphoria didn't mean she had developed immunity to them. In fact, a political consciousness honed on queer sensitivity simply made her feel guilty about not having managed to change her deeply ingrained beauty norms. Call her a fraud, a hypocrite, superficial, but politics and practice parted paths at her own body.

Moira wished she spoke better Russian so that she could talk to Tekla about her ideas regarding appearance and grooming. The facial scars put her well outside the norms of feminine beauty and she had doubled down by electing to keep the buzz cut. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, she was, to put it bluntly, kind of hot. Moira hated to say it. But hotness was a part of the human condition and it was pointless to pretend that it did not exist.

Gideon was instantly captivated. A hundred questions crowded in his mind. He wanted to know who she was, why she was there, if she liked sugar in her tea, had she climbed trees as a girl, and what her first kiss had been like... The flood of curiosity puzzled him. He usually managed to avoid caring about anyone long enough to ask questions about him. Not quite trusting himself to speak, Gideon approached her cautiously. She stiffened slightly, as if she was unused to proximity with a stranger. As he drew closer, he saw that her features were even and her nose was a little too long, and her mouth was soft and sweetly shaped. Her eyes were some light color... green, perhaps... shining eyes that contained unexpected depths.

He was incredibly and unbearably beautiful. There was no other way for her to adequately describe it to herself. It was beyond being just handsome. Handsome was a common masculine adjective, limited in its scope. This man was honestly beautiful. His facial features were so very elegant, taking the term noble to the extreme. Dark brows winged up over dark eyes, both of indeterminate color in the shadows of the night. So dramatic, but then so belied by the ridiculous childlike length of lush lashes. His magnificent eyes were lit with a soft, smoldering light of amusement as his sensual mouth was lifting up at the corner in a smile she could only call sinful. “How did you . . . but that’s . . . you couldn’t possibly!” she spluttered, her hands opening and closing reflexively on his lapels. “I did. It is not. And apparently, I could.” He was smiling broadly now, and Isabella was certain she was the cause of some unseen bit of amusement. She glowered at him, completely forgetting he’d just saved her neck. Literally. “I’m so glad you find this so entertaining!” Jacob couldn’t help his growing smile. She was so focused on him that she hadn’t realized they were still a good ten feet off the ground and floating at the exact spot where he’d met her precipitous fall. That was for the best, he thought, sinking down to the pavement while she was distracted by the taunt of his amusement. He was going to have enough trouble as it was explaining how he’d managed to catch a woman hurtling to her death from five stories up.

To be an antiracist is not to reverse the beauty standard. To be an antiracist is to eliminate any beauty standard based on skin and eye color, hair texture, facial and bodily features shared by groups. To be an antiracist is to diversify our standards of beauty like our standards of culture or intelligence, to see beauty equally in all skin colors, broad and thin noses, kinky and straight hair, light and dark eyes. To be an antiracist is to build and live in a beauty culture that accentuates instead of erases our natural beauty.

Merritt was dumbstruck at the sight of his clean-shaven face. Dear God. He was beyond handsome. The cushioning thick beard was gone, revealing the brooding masculine beauty of a fallen angel. His features were strong but elegantly refined, the cheekbones high, the mouth full and erotic.

It had been only natural that as she developed into a young woman, she would become physically attracted to him. Certainly every other female in Hampshire was. McKenna had grown into a tall, big-boned male with striking looks, his features strong if not precisely chiseled, his nose long and bold, his mouth wide. His black hair hung over his forehead in a perpetual spill, while those singular turquoise eyes were shadowed by extravagant dark lashes. To compound his appeal, he possessed a relaxed charm and a sly sense of humor that had made him a favorite on the estate and in the village beyond.

Etien’s very depressed,” Ghosh said. “Not about the cancer, but over his colostomy. He can’t accept the idea of waste coming out from an opening in his abdomen.” Etien had the sheet over his head. When Ghosh examined him, and then said the colostomy looked beautiful, tears welled up in Etien’s big eyes. He wouldn’t look down there. All he said was “Who will marry me now?” Ghosh was surprisingly firm. “Etien, that’s not the part of your body I cut off, the marrying part. You’ll find a woman who loves you, and you’ll explain it to her. If she loves you for yourself, you’ll both be glad that you are alive.” Ghosh’s facial expression brooked no argument, but then he softened. “Etien, imagine if all humans were born with their anus on the belly and that’s where everyone’s waste emerged. Then imagine if someone said they were going to operate on you and reroute your bowel so it opened behind you, between your buttock cheeks, somewhere where you couldn’t see it except in a mirror, and where you could hardly reach it or easily keep it clean …” It took a few seconds, but then Etien smiled. He dabbed his eyes. He ventured a glance down at his colostomy. It was a small step in the right direction.

While awake, he was all angles and tension- the muscles of his jaw were strung tight as a bow, as though he were in a perpetual state of holding himself back. But now, in slumber, in the glow of the fire, he was... Beautiful. The angles were still there, sharp and perfect, as though a master sculptor had had a hand in creating him- the tilt of his jaw, the cleft of his chin, his long, straight nose, the perfect curve of his brows, and those eyelashes, just as they were when he was a boy, unbelievably long and lush, a black, sooty caress against his cheeks. And his lips. Not pressed in a firm, grim line at the moment, instead lovely and full. They had once been so quick to smile, but... they had become dangerous and tempting in a way they'd never been when he was a boy. She traced the peak and valleys of his upper lip with her gaze, wondering how many women had kissed him. Wondering what his mouth would feel like- soft or firm, light or dark. She exhaled, temptation making the breath long and heavy. She wanted to touch him.

I find it really fascinating that while in an attempt to look beautiful we tend to go for what's easily acceptable. But when it comes to portraits, it is only our facial flaws that make that picture worth its while, setting it apart. Isn't it amazing to find that beauty is something that makes us alike? While our flaws are the real contributors to our uniqueness.

I used to have this fantasy that in some distant Star Wars sequel, we’d finally stop all the shooting and screaming at each other and would go to a shopping-and-beauty planet, where the stormtroopers would have to get facials, and Chewbacca would have to get pedicures and bikini and eyebrow waxes. I felt at some point that I should get—okay, fine, maybe not equal time—but just a few scenes where we all did a lot of girly things. Imagine the shopping we might have done on Tatooine! Or a little Death Star souvenir shop where you could get T-shirts that said “My parents got the force and jumped to light speed and all I got was this lousy t-shirt!” or “My boyfriend blew Jabba the Hutt and all I got” . . . etc., etc. You get the gist of my drift.

features of physical appearance, such as full lips, clear skin, smooth skin, clear eyes, lustrous hair, and good muscle tone, and features of behavior, such as a bouncy, youthful gait, an animated facial expression, and a high energy level. These physical cues to youth and health, and hence to reproductive capacity, constitute key elements of male standards of female beauty.

This is what nibbling your ear sounds like.” Blake created a soundtrack for his teeth. “This is what looking into your eyes sounds like.” The notes were deep and beckoning. “This is what my mind hears when my tongue is in your mouth.” The kiss sounded steamy and delicate. The rhythm was her heartbeat as he sampled her mouth. “But when you smile. When you smile it’s…” Blake scooted the keyboard around behind her. He needed both hands. She put her hands on his face and smiled in amazement as the music exploded. She couldn’t imagine how her simple facial gesture could inspire such a majestic sound. He smiled back. “One thousand nine hundred and ten.” “So many? Really?” “Yes, really. And it’s not nearly enough. I want to lose count, Livia. Make me lose count.” His hands left the beautiful music and grabbed handfuls of her hair.

I did not actually accuse you of being beautiful. I said you looked beautiful tonight. A subtle but significant difference." "Yes, the gown," she started to say. He stepped closer. "Is my eyesight failing? Let me take a closer study." He took another step, until she had to tilt back her head to look at him. "Hold still," he said, amusement softening his tone. He touched her chin. Eliza froze. Gently the earl tipped her face from side to side, his dark eyes intent upon her. "A few freckles," he said thoughtfully. "But I find those charming." His thumb brushed along her cheekbone and Eliza's hands fisted in the folds of her skirt. "Your lashes are very long," he murmured. "And your eyes... Your eyes are lovely. Like the fields of Rosemere under a summer sky, when the grasses are tall and verdant, and golden finches swoop in and out.

Early eighteenth-century Italy saw facial powder at the center of the biggest scandal ever to befall a cosmetics manufacturer. A woman named Signora Toffana, who was well known in upper-class social circles, created a face powder that contained lead and arsenic and sold it to the wives of noblemen and the wealthy. The more affectionate the husband was with pecks on his wife’s cheeks, the faster he died from the toxic powder. An estimated 600 husbands died this way, and Toffana was executed as an accomplice in their deaths.

And with awe he saw her lose her battle with that smile. It fought first with one corner of her mouth, then the other, and then it broke all over her like a sunrise. The very shape of her face changed. Or rather, she came into focus at last in that moment; she'd simply been awaiting illumination from within. There were dimples, and a pointed chin, and elegant cheekbones. Her face was heart-shaped, sweetly drawn, very 'alive.' She was 'incandescent' with wicked amusement. In that moment was an entirely different girl. He stared, stunned.

The black-haired man she had seen in the courtyard was indeed McKenna. He was even larger and more imposing than he had seemed at a distance. His features were blunt and strong, his bold, wide-bridged nose set with perfect symmetry between the distinct planes of his cheekbones. He was too masculine to be considered truly handsome- a sculptor would have tried to soften those uncompromising features. But somehow his hard face was the perfect setting for those lavish eyes, the clear blue-green brilliance shadowed by thick black lashes. No one else on earth had eyes like that. "McKenna," she said huskily, searching for any resemblance he might bear to the lanky, love-struck boy she had known. There was none. McKenna was a stranger now, a man with no trace of boyishness. He was sleek and elegant in well-tailored clothes, his glossy black hair cut in short layers that tamed its inherent tendency to curl. As he drew closer, she gathered more details... the shadow of bristle beneath his close-shaven skin, the glitter of a gold watch chain in his waistcoat, the brutal swell of muscle in his shoulders and thighs as he sat on a rock nearby.

His mind was completely occupied with the image of Aline by the river, the rich mass of her pinned-up hair, the exquisite lines of her body and throat. Time had only made Aline's beauty more eloquent. Her body was ripe and fully developed, the form of a woman in her prime. With maturity, her face had become more delicately sculpted, the nose thinner, the lips faded from deep rose to the pale shade of pink that tinted the inside of a seashell. And there was that damned, never-forgotten beauty mark, the festive dark fleck that lured his attention to the tender corner of her mouth.

He angled himself so he could see the round smoothness of her forehead and the straight, oddly aristocratic nose. She was beautiful. He'd recognized that immediately. Recognized and railed against it. The oval face with its exotically slanted cheekbones reminded him of etchings he'd seen of Italian Madonnas. His uncle had been generous in giving him books to make up for the Grand Tour he'd never undertake. His gaze fastened on where delicate color returned from her lush mouth. Its fullness belied the impression of purity. That mouth made even such a sorry excuse for a man as Matthew dream of sin.

I had thought the Upper East Side could shield me from the beauty pageants and cockfights of the art scene in which I’d “worked” in Chelsea. But living uptown had infected me with its own virus when I first moved there. I’d tried being one of those blond women speed walking up and down the Esplanade in spandex, Bluetooth in my ear like some self-important asshole, talking to whom—Reva? On the weekends, I did what young women in New York like me were supposed to do, at first: I got colonics and facials and highlights, worked out at an overpriced gym, lay in the hammam there until I went blind, and went out at night in shoes that cut my feet and gave me sciatica.

He found himself staring into a pair of amber eyes that tilted at the outer corners in a catlike slant. For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, while all his senses struggled to take her in. He had never seen anything like her. She was younger than he had expected, with a fair complexion and auburn hair that looked too heavy for its pins. A set of wide, pronounced cheekbones and a narrow jaw imparted an exquisite feline triangularity to her features. The curves of her lips were so full that even when she pressed them together tightly, as she was doing now, they still looked soft. Although she was not conventionally beautiful, she was so original that it rendered the question of beauty inconsequential.

Sara noticed that his white teeth were slightly snaggled, giving his smile the appearance of a friendly snarl. It was then that she understood why so many women had been seduced by him. His grin held a wickedly irresistible appeal. She stared at his chest as he untied the laces and positioned her cap correctly. "Thank you," she murmured, and tried to take the strings of the cap from his fingers. But he didn't let go. He held the laces at her chin, his fingers tightening. Glancing up at him in confusion, Sara saw that his smile had vanished. In a decisive motion he pulled the concealing lace from her hair and let it fall. The cap fluttered to a patch of mud and rested there limply. Sara lifted her hand to the loose braided coil of her hair, which threatened to tumble from its pins. The chestnut locks gleamed with fiery highlights, escaping in delicate wisps around her face and throat. "Mr. Craven," she scolded breathlessly. "I find your behavior untoward and a-and offensive, not to mention-oh!" She stammered in astonishment as he reached for her spectacles and plucked them from her face. "Mr. Craven, h-how dare you..." She fumbled to retrieve them. "I... I need those..." Derek held them out of reach as he stared at her uncovered face. This was what she had kept hidden beneath the old-maid disguise... pale, luminous skin, a mouth shaped with surprising lushness, a pert little nose, marked at the delicate bridge where the edge of her spectacles had pressed. Angel-blue eyes, pure and beguiling, surmounted by dark winged brows. She was beautiful. He could have devoured her in a few bites, like a fragrant red apple. He wanted to touch her, take her somewhere and pull her beneath him, as if he could somehow erase a lifetime of sin and shame within the sweetness of her body.

I imagine you not telling me to whisper. I imagine you not saying oh don't say this literally. You want me to evoke as opposed to mere describing. You want me to be an invisible scribe that an octoepoose was hiding. I'm not sure if my facial features are an autograph that your Picasso smile is signing. Infamous for the mirror I shook when my sock puppets were pining? I am not just a fish that you gave wings to! I don't simply flop in the air whenever you brush some mannequinn's hair. There is a reason for the bad timing. Exquisite imbalances. A child enjoying the pink sky. I won't say that is my clue! Playing The Beatles on a kazoo is beautiful oooh ooooh Your laughter is a woman with alot of eyeballs on her stomach that pretends that she doesn't see the colors of all them songs. In the pre dawn hours we dance with delusions and illusions. The eternal seamstress does not care for Frakenstein's dress(she still loves our unique caress ) She loves and laughs despite some so-called scientist. Where is that emperor and his nakedness! Darling, our atoms need never split. We compliment in so many ways that all our night's and days have become one swirling sunrise/sunset that only true lovers can scoff at(those who shhhhh) The flower is not passive or apologetic. It blooms through the fractured net. Floating magnetic(eep eeep) You are not just some seductress. You are the leader of an elite group of intergalactic seductress impersonators who reveal corruption but then choose to love. We embrace conclusions that make the puddle heart awake with ethereal drum beat gongs. You think of a heroic poodle in the dark. We both know that the trapeze artist that followed us was not a cliche. He smelled differently. He had never met a floating lady that showed him how to appreciate a symphony without taking away his love for a good rock n roll melody. I am not sure I can only whisper of such realities. I am not sure I can only whisper of such realities.-

The anger and aggression that women feel, however, can always be abated by an infinite list of beauty products, some of which have the added benefit of eliminating the appearance of anger entirely. Even if a woman is angry, no one should know it by looking at her face – optimally lineless, expressionless, and, in some cases, actually paralyzed. In 2015, news outlets announced a plastic surgery that promised to fix women with 'resting angry face,' popularly known as Resting Bitch Face. Plastic surgery, facial exercises, and even 'facial yoga' hinge on the idea that showing strong, particularly angry, emotions is bad and makes women undesirable. Antidepressant advertising targeting menopausal women encourages them to be tranquil, sedate, and, essentially, nice to look at. Lotions, creams, and injections are 'soothing' and 'calming'. Good skin care, the way to overcome 'angry' rashes or textures, has become a matter of carefully managing not just the feel of the body but also the disciplining of emotions.

The first movie star I met was Norma Shearer. I was eight years old at the time and going to school with Irving Thalberg Jr. His father, the longtime production chief at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, devoted a large part of his creative life to making Norma a star, and he succeeded splendidly. Unfortunately, Thalberg had died suddenly in 1936, and his wife's career had begun to slowly deflate. Just like kids everywhere else, Hollywood kids had playdates at each other's houses, and one day I went to the Thalberg house in Santa Monica, where Irving Sr. had died eighteen months before. Norma was in bed, where, I was given to understand, she spent quite a bit of time so that on those occasions when she worked or went out in public she would look as rested as possible. She was making Marie Antoinette at the time, and to see her in the flesh was overwhelming. She very kindly autographed a picture for me, which I still have: "To Cadet Wagner, with my very best wishes. Norma Shearer." Years later I would be with her and Martin Arrouge, her second husband, at Sun Valley. No matter who the nominal hostess was, Norma was always the queen, and no matter what time the party was to begin, Norma was always late, because she would sit for hours—hours!—to do her makeup, then make the grand entrance. She was always and forever the star. She had to be that way, really, because she became a star by force of will—hers and Thalberg's. Better-looking on the screen than in life, Norma Shearer was certainly not a beauty on the level of Paulette Goddard, who didn't need makeup, didn't need anything. Paulette could simply toss her hair and walk out the front door, and strong men grew weak in the knees. Norma found the perfect husband in Martin. He was a lovely man, a really fine athlete—Martin was a superb skier—and totally devoted to her. In the circles they moved in, there were always backbiting comments when a woman married a younger man—" the stud ski instructor," that sort of thing. But Martin, who was twelve years younger than Norma and was indeed a ski instructor, never acknowledged any of that and was a thorough gentleman all his life. He had a superficial facial resemblance to Irving Thalberg, but Thalberg had a rheumatic heart and was a thin, nonathletic kind of man—intellectually vital, but physically weak. Martin was just the opposite—strong and virile, with a high energy level. Coming after years of being married to Thalberg and having to worry about his health, Martin must have been a delicious change for Norma.

She lifted her lantern high, and he allowed her to free him from the shadows, casting his face in warm, golden light. He had aged marvelously, grown into his long limbs and angled face. Penelope had always imagined that he'd become handsome, but he was more than handsome now... he was nearly beautiful. If not for the darkness that lingered despite the glow of the lantern- something dangerous in the set of his jaw, in the tightness of his brow, in eyes that seemed to have forgotten joy, in lips that seemed to have lost their ability to smile. He'd had a dimple as a child, one that showed itself often and was almost always the precursor to adventure. She searched his left cheek, looking for that telltale indentation. Did not find it. Indeed, as much as Penelope searched this new, hard face, she could not seem to find the boy she'd once known. If not for the eyes, she would not have believed it was him at all. "How sad," she whispered to herself. He heard it. "What?" She shook her head, meeting his gaze, the only thing familiar about him. "He's gone." "Who?" "My friend." She hadn't thought it possible, but his features hardened even more, growing more stark, more dangerous, in the shadows. For one fleeting moment, she thought perhaps she had pushed him too far. He remained still, watching her with that dark gaze that seemed to see everything.

The slim chestnut-haired woman had been battering an assailant twice her size with precisely aimed strikes of her cane. Ethan had loved the way she'd done it, as if attending to some necessary task, like carrying a household bin out to the rubbish carter. Her face had been unexpectedly young, her complexion clean-scrubbed and as smooth as a tablet of white soap. All cheekbones and cool green eyes, with a sharp little rampart of a chin. But amidst the elegant angles and edges of her features, there was a valentine of a mouth, tender and vulnerable, the upper lip nearly as full as the lower. A mouth with such pretty curves that it did something to Ethan's knees every time he saw it. After that first encounter, Ethan had taken care to avoid Garrett Gibson, knowing she would be trouble for him, possibly even worse than he would be for her. But last month he'd gone to visit her at the medical clinic where she worked, for information concerning one of her patients, and his fascination had ignited all over again. Everything about Garrett Gibson was... delicious. The dissecting gaze, the voice as crisp as the icing on a lemon cake. The compassion that drove her to treat the undeserving poor as well as the deserving. The purposeful walk, the relentless energy, the self-satisfaction of a woman who neither concealed nor apologized for her own intelligence. She was sunlight and steel, spun into a substance he'd never encountered before. The mere thought of her left him like a stray coal on the hearth.

Of course, my fundamentals may not work for everyone. A beautiful aspect of the human race is our endless variety. Like maple leaves and snowflakes, there are no two of us alike. Therefore, while my tactics involving the cultivation of lush facial hair and the consumption of pork products, as well as those derived from beef, may not be exactly the steps of the path you might tread on your own way to “delicious living,” perhaps my techniques will at least inspire you to forge your own discipline, providing you with the necessary skills to blaze your own trail.

Sara noticed that his white teeth were slightly snaggled, giving his smile the appearance of a friendly snarl. It was then that she understood why so many women had been seduced by him. His grin held a wickedly irresistible appeal. She stared at his chest as he untied the laces and positioned her cap correctly. "Thank you," she murmured, and tried to take the strings of the cap from his fingers. But he didn't let go. He held the laces at her chin, his fingers tightening. Glancing up at him in confusion, Sara saw that his smile had vanished. In a decisive motion he pulled the concealing lace from her hair and let it fall. The cap fluttered to a patch of mud and rested there limply. Sara lifted her hand to the loose braided coil of her hair, which threatened to tumble from its pins. The chestnut locks gleamed with fiery highlights, escaping in delicate wisps around her face and throat. "Mr. Craven," she scolded breathlessly. "I find your behavior untoward a-and offensive, not to mention-oh!" She stammered in astonishment as he reached for her spectacles and plucked them from her face. "Mr. Craven, h-how dare you..." She fumbled to retrieve them. "I... I need those..." Derek held them out of reach as he stared at her uncovered face. This was what she had kept hidden beneath the old-maid disguise... pale, luminous skin, a mouth shaped with surprising lushness, a pert little nose, marked at the delicate bridge where the edge of her spectacles had pressed. Angel-blue eyes, pure and beguiling, surmounted by dark winged brows. She was beautiful. He could have devoured her in a few bites, like a fragrant red apple. He wanted to touch her, take her somewhere and pull her beneath him, as if he could somehow erase a lifetime of sin and shame within the sweetness of her body.

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Emma had always considered herself to be possessed of a few fortunate qualities, offset by the same number of drawbacks. She was brave, but when someone raised a threatening hand to her, that calm, faintly contemptuous expression on her face usually made the punishment far worse. She was strong, which made her able to withstand greater pain, both physical and emotional, whereas a weaker soul might dissolve into tears that would stop the torment. She considered herself to be passably pretty, though not quite in the common style, since she was built on large lines, but her height and her quiet life kept overeager swains at bay. Her face was lovely enough, yet her pale skin was marred by an unfortunate arrangement of freckles, and her brown eyes, pretty though they were, were alarmingly nearsighted. And there was the problem of her most unfortunate shade of hair. She would have given anything to have hair a plain, mousy brown, rather than the flame red she'd been born with. Miriam called her hair devil's silk.

Aelia, please stop worrying. You look beautiful. We've had large parties before and you haven't been nervous." There was the clink of cosmetic pots and bottles of nard used to perfume the forehead. "I wasn't nervous until you mentioned Ovid would be coming," Aelia said. Aelia was not alone in her love of Ovid's poetry. Passia had read every word the man had ever written. He was considered to be one of Rome's experts on both love and beauty, and most women I knew owned several of his books. When Passia heard he would be in attendance I thought she might swoon. There was the ruffle of a scroll being unraveled. "Could this be one of the sources of your concern? Women's Facial Cosmetics?" I remembered the book. Apicius had bought it and other Ovid titles for Aelia two years earlier as a Saturnalia gift. "I know, I shouldn't worry. But if he didn't know so much, how could he write it down? It is as though he were the mouthpiece for Venus herself!

In the gray winter light from the windows, Kathleen's auburn hair was a lively shock of color. She was a little slip of a thing with distinctive feline beauty, her brown eyes tip-tilted and her cheekbones prominent.

The lurid red glow from the dragon's stained-glass eyes bathed the harmonious planes of his cheeks and forehead, contoured the sharp angles of his princely nose and square, determined chin. His sable hair was blacker than night in the underworld, spun from silken shadows. His silvery eyes gleamed with anarchy as he stalked toward her.

She looked at herself in the smoky elevator mirror. Her mother always said she had the face of an angel: almond-shaped blue eyes, long dark lashes, a small nose dusted with freckles, and God's imprint, a dimple on the side of her mouth. The reflection staring back at her looked more like Snow White just after she realized she'd eaten the poisoned apple.

Serena gazed at his features. He hadn't shaved since they'd been on the trail, and dark whiskers covered the lower half of his face. His dark hair was blue-black, shiny as a raven's wing. Long black eyelashes lay against lean cheekbones. She wanted to see his eyes and on an impulse kissed one eyelid. His lips, almost too red for a man, curved into a smile, but he didn't open his eyes. Serena tried again, this time touching the outer eyelid with the tip of her tongue. His response thrilled her. With sudden strength he pulled her down on the bed. "What are you up to, madam minx?" She always forgot just how strong he was until he handled her. Arms like manacles wrapped around her, caging her against him. "I want to play." She squirmed out of his grasp. His eyes finally opened and Serena caught her breath. There was such a look of happy love coming from them. She sat up and, movements slow, sought to mesmerize him. She uncoiled her hair from its knot, letting the strands wrap around her shoulders the way he liked. He watched in worshipful silence, then reached for her, the dance begun.

Here in Alpha City, we have a common saying: “What we call ‘sky’ is merely a figment of our narrative.” The most dreamy-eyed among us seem to adorn themselves and their aspirations in that proverb and you’ll see it everywhere: in advertisements on the sides of streetcars and auto-rickshaws, spelled out in studs and rhinestones on designer jackets, emblazoned in the intricate designs of facial tattoos—even painted on city walls by putrid vandals and inspiring street artists. There is something glorious about kneading out into the doughy firmament the depth and breadth of one’s own universe, in rendering the contours of a sky whose limits are predicated only upon the bounds of one’s own imagination. The fact of the matter is that we cannot see the natural sky at all here. It is something like a theoretical mathematical expression: like the square-root of ‘negative one’—certainly it could be said to have a purpose for existing, but to cast eyes upon it, in its natural quantity, would be something akin to casting one’s eyes upon the raw elements comprising our everyday sustenance. How many of us have even borne close witness to the minute chemical compounds that react to lend battery power to our portable electronics? The sky is indeed such a concealed fixture now. It is fair to say that we have purged our memories of its true face and so we can only approximate a canvas and project our desires upon it to our heart’s dearest fancy. The most cynical among us would ostensibly declare it an unavoidable tragedy, but perhaps even these hardened individuals could not remember the naked sky well enough to know if what they were missing was something worthwhile. Perhaps, it’s cynical of me to say so! In any case, we have our searchlights pointed upwards and crisscrossing that expanse of heavens as though to make some sensational and profane joke of ourselves to the surrounding universe. We beam already video images of beauty pageants and dancing contests with smiling mannequins who look like buffoons. And so, the face of space cloaks itself behind our light pollution—in this respect, our mirrored sidewalks and lustrous streets do little to help our cause—and that face remains hidden from us in its jeering ridicule, its mocking laughter at this inexorable farce of human existence.

You have chosen to give yourself to me, Miss Chadwick." The words were low and clear. "I do not take it lightly, this gift you've bestowed. But as I said, it will take far more than one night to make you mine." Lily released her breath on a soft sigh. Something flickered in his impenetrable stare, and he added in a murmur, "There will be no going back." The sentiment echoed her own from earlier, and Lily experienced a sense of rightness in that moment that overcame any lingering question or concern. They would be lovers. As they stood facing each other in silence, barely an inch separating them yet not touching at all, she wanted so badly to lift her hand and press it to the side of his face. She wanted to feel the hard angle of his jaw against her palm and the roughness of his skin where the shadowed start of a beard darkened his cheeks. Something held her back. She touched him with her studied gaze instead, observing the harsh lines of his face as a frown hardened his visage. She slid her attention briefly to the pulse beating at his temple, then across his oppressive eyebrows, down the slope of his strong nose. His mouth was pressed into a stern, unforgiving line, but it could not disguise the elegant upper arches or the generous lower curve of his bottom lip. His mouth was beautiful, she thought. Lifting her gaze again to meet his eyes, she was struck by the raw need she saw there.

How can I describe him? His beauty did not depend on his facial expression. It was tempered already on his face. It was all wrought up with his fine bones, serene mouth, and his auburn curls.

Continuing to study, I didn’t sense the evil I thought I had detected prior. No. Nothing about her seemed demonic. In fact, the reference to the celestial bodies seemed all the more accurate, it’s as if she were light in the darkness. I couldn’t deny it—Elliyah was breathtaking. Her steel-gray eyes, with just subtle flecks of blue, were the focal point of her facial features. The sort of beauty she possessed was almost uncanny, especially in this era, as if she were from another universe.

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Whenever a beautiful woman walked by or a child wreaked havoc in the house, Uncle Jesse had a certain way of delivering the line. He’d drag out the first vowel with a slightly pained but resolute facial expression followed by the second word punched up at the end, “Haaaaaaaaave Mer-CEE!

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Things have been really interesting in your little bar,” Mel said. “A little tense and steamy.” He laughed. “Think someone should take Luke aside and warn him about this place?” “I thought you’d finally learned your lesson,” she teased him. “You’ve been in the business of almost every romantic relationship in this town….” “Yeah, but this one’s different. The second Shelby saw him, it was a target lock on. She wants him. Can you see the struggle on his face? He’s getting lines.” “Yeah, what’s that about?” Mel asked. “She’s adorable. You’d think he’d be thrilled.” “Well, the first night he met her he said he took one look at her and thought he was going to be arrested. He might be having a little trouble with her age.” “Phooey,” Mel said. “There’s quite a nice difference in our ages.” She grabbed his thigh. “I’m catching up with you, however.” “Then there’s the general,” Jack said. “Kind of intimidating…” “Oh, Walt’s a pussycat,” she said. “And I think he likes Luke. They have the army in common.” “Luke’s either going to give in or explode,” Jack said. “How do you know he hasn’t? Given in.” “Have you taken a good look at him? At his posture, his eyes? Believe me, he’d be a lot looser. He hasn’t unloaded in a long time.” “Jack!” she said. “And the funny thing is, Shelby’s downright serene,” Jack said, completely ignoring his wife’s scold. “She’s a very unusual woman.” “What do you mean?” “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror when it’s been a long time for us?” he asked. “It’s all over your face when you need to be taken care of.” He grinned at her. “It is not!” she said, giving him a whack on the arm. But she laughed at him, and secretly knew he was right. She also knew why Shelby didn’t look that way. Shelby, virginal, hadn’t been satisfied by a man yet; she didn’t ache with longing for her lover. “It’s hardly ever been a long time for us,” she pointed out. “Which is how I like it,” he said. “Then take the general,” he said. “Talk about a satisfied man…” “You can’t possibly know that. Walt neither looks nor acts any differently than he ever did,” she insisted. “The general looks like a beautiful woman moved in next door and he’s doing his best to be a good neighbor. He’s got a twinkle in his eye and a very sly grin.” Mel turned toward him and narrowed her eyes. “Do you really think you know what facial expressions correspond exactly to a man’s getting laid?” “I do,” he said with a smile. “In fact, I consider myself something of an expert.” She

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In some non-Western cultures this facial hair does not have a stigma, and may even be seen as a sign of feminine beauty, as in Russia or in Iran, where connected eyebrows are a sign of virginity and a large dowry of goats.*

the girl with a moustache" they called me every now and then "It's about time you wax your arms" those who "cared" said I faced the fears of the dreaded thread on my face To succumb every other week to the world's ways

The first impression one gets of Michael Deane is of a man constructed of wax, or perhaps prematurely embalmed. After all these years, it may be impossible to trace the sequence of facials, spa treatments, mud baths, cosmetic procedures, lifts and staples, collagen implants, outpatient touch-ups, tannings, Botox injections, cyst and growth removals, and stem-cell injections that have caused a seventy-two-year-old man to have the face of a nine-year-old Filipino girl.

He gazed into her eyes. There were little flecks of gold ringing her pupils. Now that she wasn’t running from him or terrified by him, he realized Elspeth Stewart was really quite a beauty. Her lips were full and lush. By some trick of musculature under her smooth skin, the corners of them turned up naturally in a beguiling half smile, as if she were hugging a delicious secret to herself. There were soft hollows beneath her rosy cheeks, a sign of the bone-deep loveliness that only ripens with age. “Lachlan Drummond is a lucky bastard,” Rob said with conviction.

He was tall, dressed in a brown, tweed suit that fit snugly enough to hint at his muscular build. Round, tortoise glasses framed his striking blue eyes that stood out starkly against his beautiful, deeply-tanned skin. His dark, curly hair was styled short and his perfectly manicured facial hair left her in doubt if she’d ever beheld a specimen who was more the epitome of debonair than the man walking toward her.

That’s the beauty of siblings, I think. You don’t need words. After growing up in the same dysfunctional household for years, you develop your own special telepathy, your own secret language: of facial expressions only the two of you can read, of inside jokes only the two of you understand, of memories only the two of you share.

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She holds up a purple squeeze bottle and a green glass tub of something and shakes them at me like I’m stupid. “I’ll drink your water if you give me a facial.” Gotta say, the first place my head goes is not to beauty products.

Our ancestors had access to two types of observable evidence of a woman’s health and youth: features of physical appearance, such as full lips, clear skin, smooth skin, clear eyes, lustrous hair, and good muscle tone, and features of behavior, such as a bouncy, youthful gait, an animated facial expression, and a high energy level. These physical cues to youth and health, and hence to reproductive capacity, constitute key elements of male standards of female beauty.

Women differ in the exact male height they prefer, but almost always prefer a man taller than themselves. Different ethnic groups may prefer different facial features, but all prefer faces that are symmetrical and averagely shaped for their population. If you don't look for the universals of human beauty at the right level of description, you will not find them.

Nothing accentuates facial beauty better than a pure smile.

Cultures have different standards of beauty, but research suggests that some aesthetic preferences are shared by most people. Humans tend to like symmetry. While Moalem emphasizes our power to influence our own gene expression, he also has a determinist streak, arguing that our faces and "the genetic workmanship that went into our fetal development" are closely linked. Humans evolved to find certain facial traits desirable, he argues, because they "provided the fastest way of assessing, ranking, and relating to the people around us" and they "divulge our developmental and genetic history. Your face can also tell us a lot about your brain.

They combed my hair and pinned it up, hung rubies in my ears and around my neck, painted rouge on my lips and cheeks, and anointed my wrists and throat with musk. Finally they hustled me in front of the mirror. A gleaming, crimson-clad lady stared back at me. Until this day, I had worn only the plain black of mourning, even though Father had told us when we were twelve that we could dress as we pleased. Everybody thought that I did it because I was such a pious daughter, but I simply hated pretending that everything was all right. "You look like a dream." Astraia slid her arm around my waist, smiling tremulously at our reflections. Everybody said that Astraia was the very image of our mother, and certainly she could not have gotten her looks anywhere else: the plump, dimpled cheeks, the pouting lips, the snub nose and dark curls. But I might have been born straight out of my father's head like Athena: I had his high cheekbones, his aristocratic nose, his straight black hair. In a rare burst of kindness, Aunt Telomache had once told me that while Astraia was "pretty," I was "regal";

The facials, the spa kind not the jizz kind, (oh no I was turning into Syl), and the lotions he had me try after my shower were very relaxing. He

I’ll drink your water if you give me a facial.” Gotta say, the first place my head goes is not to beauty products. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you one too.

Riley wasn’t a gambler—nor was he particularly fond of the seedy scene at the track—but he had an Irishman’s passion for beautiful horses. He loved watching them run, their muscles rippling under their shiny coats, the flare of their nostrils as they reached top speed. To Riley, horses were the purest runners on earth, unburdened by human flaws such as vanity and egotism. He hated runners who showed up their opponents with their body language and facial expressions. He hated showmanship. Riley walked Jesse straight up to the rail, where together they spent the entire afternoon just watching the thoroughbreds run race after race. “Don’t talk, Jesse,” he said. “Watch.” And Jesse watched. He watched the horses as they galloped effortlessly down the stretch. He too couldn’t help but admire their form, the way it seemed that all their energy was expended but none wasted. Finally, after the tenth and final race, Riley turned to the boy and asked, “Well, what did you learn today?” “Well,” Jesse said, his hand still clasping the rail, “the way they move—the legs and the whole bodies of the horses that can get the lead and keep it—is like they’re not trying. Like it’s easy. But you know they are trying.” “And what about their faces?” Riley asked, getting to his primary point. “I didn’t see anything on their faces.” “That’s right, Jesse,” Riley said, lifting his bony finger to Jesse’s chest. It was an accusation. “Horses are honest. No animal has ever told a lie. No horse has ever tried to stare another one down. That’s for actors. And that’s what you were doing the other day. Acting. Trying to stare down the other runners. Putting your energy into a determined look on your face instead of putting it into your running.

be an antiracist is not to reverse the beauty standard. To be an antiracist is to eliminate any beauty standard based on skin and eye color, hair texture, facial and bodily features shared by groups. To be an antiracist is to diversify our standards of beauty like our standards of culture or intelligence, to see beauty equally in all skin colors, broad and thin noses, kinky and straight hair, light and dark eyes. To be an antiracist is to build and live in a beauty culture that accentuates instead of erases our natural beauty.

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Such a wonderful face, their mother's. As a younger woman she'd been beautiful than Laurel, more so than any of her daughters, with the possible exception of Daphne. She certainly wouldn't have had directors pushing her towards character roles. But one thing you could bank on was that beauty- the sort that came with youth- didn't last, and their mother had grown old. Her skin had sagged, spots had appeared, along with mysterious puckers and discolorations; her bones had seemed to subside as the rest of her shrank and her hair frayed to nothing. But still that face remained, every aspect bright with mischief, even now. Her eyes, though tired, had the glint of one who never stopped expecting to be amused, and her mouth turned up at the corners as if she'd just remembered a joke. It was the sort of face that drew strangers, that enchanted them and made them want to know her better. The way she had of making you feel, with a slight twitch of the jaw, that she too had suffered as you did, that everything would be better now simply for having come within her orbit: that was her real beauty - her presence, her joy, her magnetism. That, and her splendid appetite for make-believe.

She was even prettier up close than he'd imagined. Bowtie lips with up-turned outer corners. Peachy skin- smooth, he could tell just by looking, yielding. Glossy curls around a love-heart face.

To be an antiracist is to eliminate any beauty standard based on skin and eye color, hair texture, facial and

The 150 years old elm trees are blossoming beautifully in the warm and pleasant spring breezes. There are plentiful International tourists roaming to and from, with gleeful facial expressions of satisfied expectations, while in the mist of their expeditions.