Hair Bows Funny Quotes

When I entered and shut the door, the Darkling gave me a small bow. “How are you, Alina?” “I’m fine,” I managed. “She’s fine!” hooted Baghra. “She’s fine! She cannot light a hallway, but she’s fine.” I winced and wished I could disappear into my boots. To my surprise, the Darkling said, “Leave her be.” Baghra’s eyes narrowed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The Darkling sighed and ran his hands through his dark hair in exasperation. When he looked at me, there was a rueful smile on his lips, and his hair was going every which way. “Baghra has her own way of doing things,” he said. “Don’t patronize me, boy!” Her voice cracked out like a whip. To my amazement, I saw the Darkling stand up straighter and then scowl as if he’d caught himself. “Don’t chide me, old woman,” he said in a low, dangerous voice.

You took advantage of me while I was sleeping," she said breathlessly. "That's not fair." Gentry's hand moved over her hip in a slow circle."I seldom play fair. It's usually easier to cheat." A sudden laugh bubbled in Lottie's throat. "You are the most shameless man I've ever encountered." "Probably," he conceded, pushing her hair aside and lowering his smiling mouth to the back of her neck.

Tell me. Has your daughter made the journey with you?” “She is here,” the hag says. A girl steps from the crowd to bow low before Cardan. She is young, with a mass of unbound hair. Like her mother, her limbs are oddly long and twig-like, but where her mother is unsettlingly bony, she has a kind of grace. Maybe it helps that her feet resemble human ones. Although, to be fair, they are turned backward.

In a funny way, Dad was always a bow-tie wearer, always a little more traditional than you might imagine. Because even though he had blue hair and tattoos and wore leather jackets and worked in a record store, he wanted to marry Mom back at a time when the rest of their friends were still having drunken one-night stands. "Girlfriend is such a stupid word," he said. "I couldn't stand calling her that. So, we had to get married, so I could call her "wife"'.

Mr. Haverstrom closes the door, leaving Patrick and me alone in the hallway. Pat smiles slickly, leaning in toward me. I step back until I press against the wall. It’s uncomfortable—but not threatening. Mostly because in addition to racquetball I’ve practiced aikido for years. So if Patrick tries anything funny, he’s in for a very painful surprise. “Let’s be honest, Sarah: you know and I know the last thing you want to do is give a presentation in front of hundreds of people—your colleagues.” My heart tries to crawl into my throat. “So, how about this? You do the research portion, slides and such that I don’t really have time for, and I’ll take care of the presentation, giving you half the credit of course.” Of course. I’ve heard this song before—in school “group projects” where I, the quiet girl, did all the work, but the smoothest, loudest talker took all the glory. “I’ll get Haverstrom to agree on Saturday—I’m like a son to him,” Pat explains before leaning close enough that I can smell the garlic on his breath. “Let Big Pat take care of it. What do you say?” I say there’s a special place in hell for people who refer to themselves in the third person. But before I can respond, Willard’s firm, sure voice travels down the hall. “I think you should back off, Nolan. Sarah’s not just ‘up for it,’ she’ll be fantastic at it.” Pat waves his hand. “Quiet, midge—the adults are talking.” And the adrenaline comes rushing back, but this time it’s not anxiety-induced—it’s anger. Indignation. I push off the wall. “Don’t call him that.” “He doesn’t mind.” “I mind.” He stares at me with something akin to surprise. Then scoffs and turns to Willard. “You always let a woman fight your battles?” I take another step forward, forcing him to move back. “You think I can’t fight a battle because I’m a woman?” “No, I think you can’t fight a battle because you’re a woman who can barely string three words together if more than two people are in the room.” I’m not hurt by the observation. For the most part, it’s true. But not this time. I smile slowly, devilishly. Suddenly, I’m Cathy Linton come to life—headstrong and proud. “There are more than two people standing here right now. And I’ve got more than three words for you: fuck off, you arrogant, self-righteous swamp donkey.” His expression is almost funny. Like he can’t decide if he’s more shocked that I know the word fuck or that I said it out loud to him—and not in the good way. Then his face hardens and he points at me. “That’s what I get for trying to help your mute arse? Have fun making a fool of yourself.” I don’t blink until he’s down the stairs and gone. Willard slow-claps as he walks down the hall to me. “Swamp donkey?” I shrug. “It just came to me.” “Impressive.” Then he bows and kisses the back of my hand. “You were magnificent.” “Not half bad, right? It felt good.” “And you didn’t blush once.” I push my dark hair out of my face, laughing self-consciously. “Seems like I forget all about being nervous when I’m defending someone else.” Willard nods. “Good. And though I hate to be the twat who points it out, there’s something else you should probably start thinking about straight away.” “What’s that?” “The presentation in front of hundreds of people.” And just like that, the tight, sickly feeling washes back over me. So this is what doomed feels like. I lean against the wall. “Oh, broccoli balls.

Arik had already gone two weeks longer than usual for this haircut because of an overseas business trip. Time to get back to his highest priority. “How long until Dominic is back?” “A week, maybe two. I told him to take his time. Granddad doesn’t often take time off, and he’s getting up there in years.” A few weeks? He’d look like a wildebeest if he waited that long. “That’s no good. I need a cut. Are there any male barbers available?” “Afraid to let a girl touch your precious hair?” She smirked. “I can peek at the schedule and see if we can squeeze you in this afternoon.” “I don’t have time to come back. I need it done now.” Usually when he used the word now, people jumped to do his bidding. She, on the other hand, shook her head. “Not happening, unless you’ve changed your mind and are willing to let me cut it.” “You’re a hairdresser.” “Exactly.” “I want a barber.” “Same thing.” Said the girl without a Y chromosome. “I think I’ll wait.” Arik turned away from her, only to freeze as she muttered, “Pussy.” If she only knew how right she was. But, of course, she didn’t mean the feline version. Pride made him pivot back. “You know what. On second thought, you may cut my hair.” “How gracious of you, Your Majesty.” She sketched him a mock bow. Not funny, even if accurate. He glared in reply. “I see someone’s too uptight for a sense of humor.” “I greatly enjoy comedy, when I hear it.” “Sorry if my brand of sarcasm is too simple for you to understand, big guy. Now, if you’re done, sit down so we can get this over with and send you and your precious hair back to your office.

SpottieOttieDopaliscious [Hook] Damn damn damn James [Verse 1: Sleepy Brown] Dickie shorts and Lincoln's clean Leanin', checking out the scene Gangsta boys, blizzes lit Ridin' out, talkin' shit Nigga where you wanna go? You know the club don't close 'til four Let's party 'til we can't no more Watch out here come the folks (Damn - oh lord) [Verse 2: André 3000] As the plot thickens it gives me the dickens Reminiscent of Charles a lil' discotheque Nestled in the ghettos of Niggaville, USA Via Atlanta, Georgia a lil' spot where Young men and young women go to experience They first li'l taste of the night life Me? Well I've never been there; well perhaps once But I was so engulfed in the Olde E I never made it to the door you speak of, hardcore While the DJ sweatin' out all the problems And the troubles of the day While this fine bow-legged girl fine as all outdoors Lulls lukewarm lullabies in your left ear Competing with "Set it Off," in the right But it all blends perfectly let the liquor tell it "Hey hey look baby they playin' our song" And the crowd goes wild as if Holyfield has just won the fight But in actuality it's only about 3 A.M And three niggas just don' got hauled Off in the ambulance (sliced up) Two niggas don' start bustin' (wham wham) And one nigga don' took his shirt off talkin' 'bout "Now who else wanna fuck with Hollywood Courts?" It's just my interpretation of the situation [Hook] [Verse 3: Big Boi] Yes, when I first met my SpottieOttieDopalicious Angel I can remember that damn thing like yesterday The way she moved reminded me of a Brown Stallion Horse with skates on, ya know Smooth like a hot comb on nappy ass hair I walked up on her and was almost paralyzed Her neck was smelling sweeter Than a plate of yams with extra syrup Eyes beaming like four karats apiece just blindin' a nigga Felt like I chiefed a whole O of that Presidential My heart was beating so damn fast Never knowing this moment would bring another Life into this world Funny how shit come together sometimes (ya dig) One moment you frequent the booty clubs and The next four years you & somebody's daughter Raisin' y'all own young'n now that's a beautiful thang That's if you're on top of your game And man enough to handle real life situations (that is) Can't gamble feeding baby on that dope money Might not always be sufficient but the United Parcel Service & the people at the Post Office Didn't call you back because you had cloudy piss So now you back in the trap just that, trapped Go on and marinate on that for a minute

Lord Charles?" "Amy."  He smiled sleepily and rose up on one elbow, the blanket sliding down one shoulder.  "Good morning." Temporary silence.  Charles was unaware that Amy had a friend with her, and he was totally oblivious to the sight he presented to the two girls, his hair tousled by sleep, his pale blue eyes clear as aquamarine as a shaft of sunlight drove through the window and caught him full in the face.  A sighted man would, of course, have squinted; Charles did not, and instead, Mira and Amy were treated to a brilliant, wide-open view of clear, intelligent eyes, romantically down turned at the outer corners and fringed by long straight lashes tinged with gold. "Hell and tarnation above, Amy, ye sure weren't jokin'!  He's bleedin' gorgeous!" "Mira!" cried Amy, horrified. Charles was hard-pressed to hide his amusement.  He knew, of course, or had at least suspected, that Amy had a girlish infatuation for him, and he'd tried his best not to embarrass her by calling attention to it.  He determined not to do so now. "And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" he asked, still supporting himself on one elbow and blinking the sleep from his eyes. Mira, standing there with her mouth open, was transfixed by that slow, deliberate blink.  In a heartbeat, she saw what Amy had described:  studied thoughtfulness, kindness, compassion.  The way the man lowered those long eyelashes over those translucently clear eyes, then slowly brought them back up again, did something funny to her insides.  Cripes, no wonder Amy was smitten! "Mira Ashton, patriot," she announced.  "I'm Amy's friend.  She tells me ye're a blasted Brit who took it upon himself to be merciful to Will, so I guess I'll take it upon myself to be merciful to you.  Besides, I hear ye're being nice to Amy, and since everyone else in this house treats her like donkey dung, I figger the least I can do is be civil to ye — redcoat or not." "Mira!" Amy gasped. "Well, it's true.  Where are those two bleedin' leeches, anyhow?" Despite himself, and his irritation with both the girl's language and her rather vexing use of the word "Brit," Charles got to his feet and bowed, his spirits suddenly quite buoyed.  If Amy had friends like this, maybe he shouldn't be worrying about her, after all. "Still in bed, I daresay," he said.

Boxwood, a man of indeterminate age with a scraggly mass of brown hair and a paper-thin mustache, had been hired on part-time, and it was he who oversaw the boys in their outdoor chores. Marvin was handed an axe and followed a few of the other boys to an adjacent area where several tree stumps had been strategically placed, along with a bounty of uncut wood. Marvin got to work. He hacked at a portion of a downed tree, and once he had a manageable piece, he heaved it into his arms and dropped it onto one of the stumps. He hoisted the heavy axe over his shoulder and, with as much force as he could muster, brought it down upon the chunky piece of trunk. The wood split in two, a few shards spraying outward and falling to the ground. Marvin repositioned one half of the newly cut trunk, heaved the axe over his shoulder, and brought it down forcefully on the wood. It split again. By the time Mr. Boxwood announced that the boys were through for the evening, Marvin was sweating profusely, and his arms ached. He returned the axe to the storage shed and walked toward the main entrance of the orphanage along with the other boys who had been required to split wood. The grounds were otherwise unoccupied, the other children having already headed to their dormitories to retire for the evening. Marvin was walking toward the stairwell when he passed a bathroom and spotted movement through the open door. When he instinctively turned his head to look within, he saw Eva on all fours, scrubbing the floor with a small-handled brush, a metal bucket of sudsy water at her side. Marvin searched the hallway and, not spotting any authority figures, whispered, “Eva. Hey, Eva.” When she looked up at the sound of his voice, Marvin noticed her eyes were tinged with red. “What are you doing?” “What does it look like I’m doing?” She seemed about to cry, but her jaw was clenched in anger. “Why do you have to do it?” Eva sat back on her heels, rested the brush on her lap, and ran her free hand up into her hair, where she angrily grasped the large bow. “This damn thing!” she exclaimed, and Marvin’s eyes widened at the curse. “I didn’t want to wear it. It’s babyish. My parents never made me wear something like this. Not at my age, anyway. Maybe when I was a baby and I didn’t know any better or didn’t care, but not now. And Sister What’s Her Name said I had to wear one because it made me look presentable—that was her word: presentable. Because apparently, I don’t look presentable without a big ol’ stupid, ugly, white baby bow in my hair. I got so mad, I yanked it out and threw it on the ground, but then she looked at me. Just looked at me. She didn’t say anything, just stared. And then my heart got all jumpy because nobody had ever looked at me that way before.” Eva wiped a tear from under her eye. “She picked it up, so slow I didn’t know if she had trouble with her legs or something, right? She picked it up, and then she held it in her hand and looked down at it, and then… then… Marvin, she slapped me so hard on the cheek, I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t believe it. Nobody’s ever slapped me before!” Another tear dribbled from Eva’s eye, and Marvin was compelled forward. His knees hit the cold, hard floor, and he reached

Papina had grey hair and a purple face. She was like a trained mouse, one of those small white ones that sit up on their tails and then fall flat, their stomachs slapping the ground. She got up on her tail and stayed there through some miracle of balance, to the confusion of all who saw her walking around on her little bow legs and funny round feet. Yet her hands were so quick and lively that one couldn’t even feel her buttoning up a dress, lacing a belt or pulling a skirt round the hips to adjust it. As she took the blue trousers and yellow sash from the wardrobe for Irma, she walked behind Gioia and shook the girl’s shoulders. “Quickly, my lovely! If you sit there under a spell, the prince can’t carry you off to the wedding…” She’d read all the fairy stories and took delight in being irresistibly droll, so instead of wedding she’d said werewolf; she was imitating Macario, whom she’d seen at the cinema.