Hair Extensions Quotes

Right from the start Abigail used to moan and fidget as her hair was relaxed or braided or thermally reconditioned, but her dad was determined that his child wasn’t going to embarrass him in public. That all stopped when Abigail turned eleven and calmly announced that she had ChildLine on speed‑dial and the next person who came near her with a hair extension, chemical straightener, or, God forbid, a hot comb, was going to end up explaining their actions to Social Services.

I have just come from the East End,” he said. “Something about the stories disturbed me, for more than the obvious reasons. I went there to have a look about for myself. And what happened last night proves my theory. There have been many murders recently—all of women, women who . . .” “Prostitutes,” Tessa said. “Quite,” Gabriel said. “Tessa has such an extensive vocabulary,” Will said. “It is one of the most attractive things about her. Shame about yours, Gabriel.” “Will, listen to me.” Gabriel allowed himself a long sigh. “Spoon!” James said, running at his uncle Gabriel and jabbing him in the thigh. Gabriel mussed the boy’s hair affectionately. “You’re such a good boy,” he said. “I often wonder how you could possibly be Will’s.” “Spoon,” James said, leaning against his uncle’s leg lovingly. “No, Jamie,” Will urged. “Your honorable father has been impugned. Attack, attack!

Over the years our mother has beaten us with belts, shoes, rulers, extension cords, hair brushes, a wooden spoon, a fly swatter, a toilet brush, wire coat hangers, wooden coat hangers and sometimes one of our own toys. When you get whacked by your own paddleball paddle or you have to watch your sister getting spanked with a badminton racquet that she asked Santa Claus (AKA Grandma) to bring, you don't feel much like playing with those things ever again.

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

There is no such thing as being just a girl. You are a goddess, an extension of beauty and intellect itself. Within you funnels the true power of all, and under those pretty little hairs is a mind far more vast than any man could understand...

stealing things. I should preface this by saying I was an only child—a precocious one at that. I also said I was going to live on the moon, invent glow-in-the-dark hair extensions,

Calling Mackenzie a "mean girl" is an understatement. She's a GRIZZLY BEAR with a French manicure and blonde hair extensions

Hair extensions have become very popular in recent times, and this may be attributed to the numerous benefits that they offer. Arguably, one of the most important benefits of using hair extensions is that they guarantee instant gratification.

Leonard is far and away my least favorite relative, and I have no clue why I call him one night, collect, very late, and give him an involved and scrupulously fair edition of the whole story. We end up arguing. Leonard maintains that I am just like our mother and suffer from an unhappy and basically silly desire to be perfect; I sat that this has nothing constructive to do with anything I've said, and furthermore I fail to see what's so bad about wishing to be perfect, since being perfect would be...well, perfect. Leonard invites me to think about how boring it would be to be perfect. I defer to Leonard's extensive and hard-earned knowledge about being boring, but do point out that since being boring is an imperfection, it would by definition be impossible for a perfect person to be boring. Leonard says I've always enjoyed playing games with words in order to dodge the real meanings of things; this segues with suspicious neatness into my intuitions about the impending death of lexical utterance, and I'm afraid I indulge myself for several minutes before I realize that one of us has severed the connection. I curse Leonard's pipe, and his wife with a face like the rind of a ham.

Our ancestors say: Our hair is our memories. Our source of strength. An extension of us.

His son Peter Bucky happily spent time driving Einstein around, and he later wrote down some of his recollections in extensive notebooks. They provide a delightful picture of the mildly eccentric but deeply un-affected Einstein in his later years. Peter tells, for example, of driving in his convertible with Einstein when it suddenly started to rain. Einstein pulled off his hat and put it under his coat. When Peter looked quizzical, Einstein explained: “You see, my hair has withstood water many times before, but I don’t know how many times my hat can.

There she was. Her golden hair shone as she wove in and out of a knot of three guards, her sword little more than a steel extension of her hand. She didn’t balk at the guards as she dodged and twirled around them.

Last and crowning torture of all the tortures of that awful place is the eternity of hell. Eternity! O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it? And remember, it is an eternity of pain. Even though the pain of hell were not so terrible as they are, yet they would become infinite, as they are destined to last for ever. But while they are everlasting they are at the some times, as you know, intolerably intense, unbearably extensive. To bear even the sting of an insect for all eternity would be a dreadful torment. What must it be, then, to bear the manifold tortures of hell for ever? For ever! For all eternity! Not for a year or for an age but for ever. Try to imagine the awful meaning of this. You have often seen the sand on the seashore. How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny little grains go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play. Now imagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness; and imagine such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multiplies as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on animals, atoms in the vast expanse of the air: and imagine that at the end of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many million upon millions of centuries would pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away all? Yet at the end of that immense stretch of time not even one instant of eternity could be said to have ended. At the end of all those billions and trillions of years eternity would have scarcely begun. And if that mountain rose again after it had been all carried away, and i f the bird came again and carried it all away again grain by grain, and if it sop rose and sank as many times as there are stars in the sky, atoms in the air, drops of water in the sea, leaves on the trees, feathers upon birds, scales upon fish, hairs upon animals, at the end of all those innumerable risings and sinkings of that immeasurably vast mountain not one single instant of eternity could be said to have ended; even then, at the end of such a period, after that eon of time the mere thought of which makes our very brain reel dizzily, eternity would scarcely have begun.

Isaiah told him what he’d found on the Ruby’s Real Beauty website. Ruby’s stocked the largest, most complete inventory of human hair extensions in the South Bay area. The most highly prized were Virgin Remy. “Virgin because the girl still had her cherry?” Dodson said. “No. Virgin because the hair wasn’t chemically treated,” Isaiah said. “What’s Remy mean?” “It means the hair was carefully cut so the cuticles and roots stayed in the same direction. Otherwise, they mow it down like weeds and throw it in a bin.” Isaiah

A naturalist should look at the world with warm affection, if not ardent love. The life the scalpel has ended ought to be honored by a caring, devoted appreciation for that creature’s unrepeatable individuality, and for the fact that, at the same time, strange as this may seem, this life stands for the entire natural kingdom. Examined with attention, the dissected hare illuminates the parts and properties of all other animals and, by extension, their environment. The hare, like a blade of grass or a piece of coal, is not simply a small fraction of the whole but contains the whole within itself. This makes us all one. If anything, because we are all made of the same stuff. Our flesh is the debris of dead stars, and this is also true of the apple and its tree, of each hair on the spider’s legs, and of the rock rusting on planet Mars. Each minuscule being has spokes radiating out to all of creation. Some of the raindrops falling on the potato plants in your farm back in Sweden were once in a tiger’s bladder. From one living thing, the properties of any other may be predicted. Looking at any particle with sufficient care, and following the chain that links all things together, we can arrive at the universe—the correspondences are there, if the eye is skillful enough to detect them. The guts of the anatomized hare faithfully render the picture of the entire world. And because that hare is everything, it is also us. Having understood and experienced this marvelous congruity, man can no longer examine his surroundings merely as a surface scattered with alien objects and creatures related to him only by their usefulness. The carpenter who can only devise tabletops while walking through the forest, the poet who can only remember his own private sorrows while looking at the falling snow, the naturalist who can only attach a label to every leaf and a pin to every insect—all of them are debasing nature by turning it into a storehouse, a symbol, or a fact. Knowing nature, Lorimer would often say, means learning how to be. And to achieve this, we must listen to the constant sermon of things. Our highest task is to make out the words to better partake in the ecstasy of existence.

I don't want them to think that we dress like savages,' she replied, with a scorn that Pocahontas might have resented; and he was struck again by the religious reverence of even the most unworldly American women for the social advantages of dress. 'It's their armour,' he thought, 'their defence against the unknown, and their defiance of it.' And he understood for the first time the earnestness with which May, who was incapable of tying a ribbon in her hair to charm him, had gone through the solemn rite of selecting and ordering her extensive wardrobe.

However, if you do want to proceed to seduce a woman, the most effective way to do so is to tell her what she wants to hear. Women already realize this fact, as they fix themselves up to show what men want to see by dying their hair, getting hair extensions, applying makeup, wearing fake fingernails, and wearing high heels. They may also go to extremes by getting breast implants, plastic surgery, and Botox. They do all that and much more to appear more attractive to men, and it is completely acceptable and often appreciated, as long as it is done in moderation.

No one, certainly no woman, is allowed to question his femaleness. Men who adopt femininity may believe that they are achieving femaleness, but femaleness is a tougher destiny than they can know or guess. Femaleness is demanding and painful, whether at menarche, menstruation, childbed or menopause, and born women have no choice but to deal with it. Painted faces, depilated bodies, hair extensions and pumped up tits are available to all human beings. Femininity is a de-sexed masquerade. Men can be as good at it and better than women, but that does not make them women.

It's Also Tradition to Wear White,I Study Myself in The Mirror Now,as Annabelle Curls My Hair. My Dress is Strapless,Layers of ivory chiffon Floating to The Floor.a Necklace of Diamonds and Rubies Sparkles at My Throat Garnet Leans Against The Newel Post and Whistles As I Come Down The Stairs. My Cheeks Flush. Have You Been To The Royal Palace Yet? Garnet Asks Me.I Stare at Him for a Second Wondering if He's Joking. Yes, I Say Slowly. You Bumped Into Me at The Exetor's Ball. Did I? Garnet's Eyebrows Pinch Together. Huh Well,You Haven't Seen Anytging Until You've Seen The Winter Ball Decorations. We are Escorted to a Extension Made Entirely of Glass. It is Lit with Thousands of Candles. Giving The Room a Beautiful Golden Glow. The Floor is Made Out Of Blue Glass and Enormous Ice Sculptures Glitter in The Flickering Light. I See What Garnet Meant-The Whole Effect is Magnificent.

It's Also Tradition to Wear White,I Study Myself in The Mirror Now,as Annabelle Curls My Hair. My Dress is Strapless,Layers of ivory chiffon Floating to The Floor.a Necklace of Diamonds and Rubies Sparkles at My Throat Garnet Leans Against The Newel Post and Whistles As I Come Down The Stairs. My Cheeks Flush.  Have You Been To The Royal Palace Yet? Garnet Asks Me.I Stare at Him for a Second Wondering if He's Joking. Yes, I Say Slowly. You Bumped Into Me at The Exetor's Ball. Did I? Garnet's Eyebrows Pinch Together. Huh Well,You Haven't Seen Anything Until You've Seen The Winter Ball Decorations. We are Escorted to a Extension Made Entirely of Glass. It is Lit with Thousands of Candles. Giving The Room a Beautiful Golden Glow. The Floor is Made Out Of Blue Glass and Enormous Ice Sculptures Glitter in The Flickering Light. I See What Garnet Meant-The Whole Effect is Magnificent.” 

Native/Indigenous Peoples believe that hair holds strength and power. Some tribes may be different in how they wear their hair and the specific traditions they honor, but a common thread across many Indigenous cultures is the importance of hair. Hair is a physical manifestation of the spirit. Cutting, burying, and burning hair carries strong significance and meaning. In some tribes, it is a tradition to cut your hair and bury it with a loved one for them to bring energies along on their spirit journey. Hair is an extension of Native Peoples and holds dreams, memories, joys, trials, tribulations, and triumphs. Hair is a living "scrapbook" always carried with us, giving strength and courage.

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.

And they spoke of their Antigonie, who they called Go, as if she were a friend. Leo hadn't yet written any music, but he had made drawings on butcher paper stolen from the kitchen. They curled around his walls, intricate doodles, extensions of the boy's own lean, slight body. The shape of Leo's jaw in profile, devestating. The way he gnawed his fingernails to the crescents, the fine shining hairs down the center of his nape, the smell of him, up close, pure and clean, bleaching. The ones made for music are the most beloved of all. Their bodies a container for the spirit within; the best of them is music, the rest only instrument of flesh and bone. The weather conspired. Snow fell softly in the windows. It was too cold to be out for long. The world colorless, a dreamscape, a blank page, the linger of woodsmoke on the back of the tongue.

The man was actually still a youth. He had a light mustache and beard encircling his chin, more yellow than brown. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes blue. You couldn't tell the color of his hair since it was completely covered by a bowl shaped leather helmet made of such a firm solid material that even a rather strong sword's blow couldn't penetrate it. It rested on his head gathering all his hair inside; over his ears and toward the back was an extension to ward off a blow to the neck.

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.

But remember 2003, though, when girls wore those miniskirts that were like six floaty napkins stapled to a scrunchie, with perhaps an Edwardian waistcoat sewn of cobwebs as a top? Where at any moment a baby’s sneeze across campus might expose Kaylee’s entire bunghole and even the slouchy Western belt she wore over her three layers of different-colored camisoles couldn’t save her? In case you’ve repressed the memory, 2003 was the kind of year where Jessica Simpson might wear rubber flip-flops to the Golden Globes, and Nicole Richie was nearly elected president on a platform of “straight blonde hair on top, long curly dark brown extensions underneath, one feather.” The 2003 vibe—culturally, socially, politically, spiritually—was very “energy drink commercial directed by Mark McGrath, and not Mark McGrath in his prime, either.” Millions of Americans were forced to mourn Mr. Rogers while wearing a hot-pink corduroy train conductor’s hat. Never again! Bad Boys II is a 2003 movie.

He glanced sidelong at me, then looked down a bit sheepishly. “Well, it’s—ah, it’s only that I didna want to take my shirt off before Alec.” “Modest, are you?” I asked dryly, making him raise his arm to test the extension of the joint. He winced slightly at the movement, but smiled at the remark. “If I were, I should hardly be sittin’ half-naked in your chamber, should I? No, it’s the marks on my back.” Seeing my raised eyebrows, he went on to explain. “Alec knows who I am—I mean, he’s heard I was flogged, but he’s not seen it. And to know something like that is no the same as seein’ it wi’ your own eyes.” He felt the sore shoulder tentatively, eyes turned away. He frowned at the floor. “It’s—maybe you’ll not know what I mean. But when you know a man’s suffered some harm, it’s only one of the things you know about him, and it doesna make much difference to how ye see him. Alec knows I’ve been flogged, like he knows I’ve red hair, and it doesna matter to how he treats me.” He looked up then, searching for some sign of understanding from me. “But when you see it yourself, it’s like”—he hesitated, looking for words—“it’s a bit … personal, maybe, is what I mean. I think … if he were to see the scars, he couldna see me anymore without thinking of my back. And I’d be able to see him thinking of it, and that would make me remember it, and—” He broke off, shrugging.

He collapsed half on top of her, too wrung out to move, his lungs working like bellows, his heart thundering, pounding. Gradually, it slowed. Sensation, muted awareness returned, enough to register the gentle stroking of her hand, the soothing touch calming, strangely claiming. He wanted to find his sophisticated armor and put it back on-before he faced her, before she saw... Before he could move, she did; turning her head to his, pushing back the damp hair from the side of his face, she touched her lips to his jaw, then, her lips curving sleepily, touched those swollen lips to the corner of his. "Thank you." The words were a sigh, the softest of feminine exhalations. "That was...thrilling. And...so very fine." He nearly humphed. Fine? The intensity had damned hear killed him, and she labeled the moment "fine?" She fell back, fully relaxed on her back in the bed. After a moment, he turned his head and looked at her. Studied the madonnalike expression that had claimed her face, the bliss that infused her features. He filled his lungs, then managed to summon sufficient strength to disengage and lift from her. Slumping on his back alongside her, he stared up at the ceiling, but there were no hints or clues written there. For the first time in his extensive career, he didn't feel, even now, in control. He felt...exposed. Uncertain. Not his usual polished, urbane, somewhat boredly smug self. Yet he was the one who was supposedly used to this, accustomed to all the nuances. Who knew all the appropriate moves to make, and when to make them. She...he glanced at her again, at her face. Hesitated, then gave into impulse and reached for her. Drawing her to him, he pulled the covers over them, then settled her against them, cradled within his arm, her head pillowed on his chest. She made a humming sound, then her limbs eased against him. He dipped his head, placed a kiss on her forehead. "Sleep." He felt her lips curve, but she didn't reply. Instead she slid her hand up, curling her fingers against the side of his throat, and relaxed into his arms. Inexplicably satisfied now as well as sated, he closed his eyes. And found slumber waiting, dreamless and deep.

While the following tragedy may be revolting to read, it must not be forgotten that the existence of it is far more revolting. In Devonshire Place, Lisson Grove, a short while back died an old woman of seventy-five years of age. At the inquest the coroner's officer stated that all he found in the room was a lot of old rags covered with vermin. He had got himself smothered with the vermin. The room was in a shocking condition, and he had never seen anything like it. Everything was absolutely covered with vermin.' The doctor said: 'He found deceased lying across the fender on her back. She had one garment and her stockings on. The body was quite alive with vermin, and all the clothes in the room were absolutely gray with insects. Deceased was very badly nourished and was very emaciated. She had extensive sores on her legs, and her stockings were adherent to those sores. The sores were the result of vermin. Over her bony chest leaped and rolled hundreds, thousands, myriads of vermin.' A man present at the inquest wrote; 'I had the evil fortune to see the body of the unfortunate woman as it lay in the mortuary; and even now the memory of that gruesome sight makes me shudder. There she lay in the mortuary shell, so starved and emaciated that she was a mere bundle of skin and bones. Her hair, which was matted with filth, was simply a nest of vermin. If it is not good for your mother and my mother so to die, then it is not good for this woman, whosoever's mother she might be, so to die. Bishop Wilkinson, who has lived in Zululand, recently said, 'No headman of an African village would allow such a promiscuous mixing of young men and women, boys and girls.' He had reference to the children of the overcrowded folk, who at five have nothing to learn and much to unlearn which they will never unlearn. It is notorious that here in the Ghetto the houses of the poor are greater profit earners than the mansions of the rich. Not only does the poor worker have to live like a beast, but he pays proportionately more for it than does the rich man for his spacious comfort. A class of house-sweaters has been made possible by the competition of the poor for houses. There are more people than there is room, and numbers are in the workhouse because they cannot find shelter elsewhere. Not only are houses let, but they are sublet, and sub-sublet down to the very rooms.

On Mr. Phipps' discovering the place of my concealment, he cocked his gun and aimed at me. I requested him not to shoot and I would give up, upon which he demanded my sword. I delivered it to him, and he brought me to prison. During the time I was pursued, I had many hair breadth escapes, which your time will not permit you to relate. I am here loaded with chains, and willing to suffer the fate that awaits me. I here proceeded to make some inquiries of him after assuring him of the certain death that awaited him, and that concealment would only bring destruction on the innocent as well as guilty, of his own color, if he knew of any extensive or concerted plan. His answer was, I do not. When I questioned him as to the insurrection in North Carolina happening about the same time, he denied any knowledge of it; and when I looked him in the face as though I would search his inmost thoughts, he replied, 'I see sir, you doubt my word; but can you not think the same ideas, and strange appearances about this time in the heaven's might prompt others, as well as myself, to this undertaking.' I now had much conversation with and asked him many questions, having forborne to do so previously, except in the cases noted in parenthesis; but during his statement, I had, unnoticed by him, taken notes as to some particular circumstances, and having the advantage of his statement before me in writing, on the evening of the third day that I had been with him, I began a cross examination, and found his statement corroborated by every circumstance coming within my own knowledge or the confessions of others whom had been either killed or executed, and whom he had not seen nor had any knowledge since 22d of August last, he expressed himself fully satisfied as to the impracticability of his attempt. It has been said he was ignorant and cowardly, and that his object was to murder and rob for the purpose of obtaining money to make his escape. It is notorious, that he was never known to have a dollar in his life; to swear an oath, or drink a drop of spirits. As to his ignorance, he certainly never had the advantages of education, but he can read and write, (it was taught him by his parents,) and for natural intelligence and quickness of apprehension, is surpassed by few men I have ever seen. As to his being a coward, his reason as given for not resisting Mr. Phipps, shews the decision of his character. When he saw Mr. Phipps present his gun, he said he knew it was impossible for him to escape as the woods were full of men; he therefore thought it was better to surrender, and trust to fortune for his escape. He is a complete fanatic, or plays his part most admirably. On other subjects he possesses an uncommon share of intelligence, with a mind capable of attaining any thing; but warped and perverted by the influence of early impressions. He is below the ordinary stature, though strong and active, having the true negro face, every feature of which is strongly marked. I shall not attempt to describe the effect of his narrative, as told and commented on by himself, in the condemned hole of the prison. The calm, deliberate composure with which he spoke of his late deeds and intentions, the expression of his fiend-like face when excited by enthusiasm, still bearing the stains of the blood of helpless innocence about him; clothed with rags and covered with chains; yet daring to raise his manacled hands to heaven, with a spirit soaring above the attributes of man; I looked on him and my blood curdled in my veins.

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

Rhi stood in the doorway and watched Henry. He was a fighter. Maybe that’s why she saved him. There was also a slim chance it was because he helped the Kings. “It’s a good thing you called me,” Usaeil, Queen of the Light, said as she came to stand beside Rhi. Rhi could’ve brought Henry to Usaeil’s manor on the west coast of Ireland, but then it would reveal to one and all power she’s managed to keep hidden from them. That was something she wanted to keep to herself. So she got Henry out of the prison and to the outskirts of Dublin. From there, it was simply a matter of asking Usaeil for help. Now all Rhi had to worry about was finding out how much Henry remembered. If he recalled seeing her teleport him out, then she would need to convince him to lie for her. Although Usaeil would want to know how Henry got out of his prison and how Rhi found him. Usaeil hadn’t begun those questions yet. But they were coming. “I’m glad you agreed to help,” Rhi said. Usaeil shoved her black hair over her shoulders and adjusted the coral sheath dress she wore. “He’s aiding the Kings. Why wouldn’t I help him?” Rhi wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn’t. “We might be Light, but we also use humans as the Dark do.” “We don’t kill them.” “No, we sleep with them once and ruin them for any other mortal. We don’t hurt them at all,” she said sarcastically, giving Usaeil a cutting look. Usaeil slid her silver eyes to Rhi. “I can easily toss Henry North out on his ass.” “Do it. What do I care?” “I think you care more than you’re ready to admit. Why else would you want to help him?” Usaeil sighed. “Rhi, we all know you went through hell at Balladyn’s hands. We know it’s going to take time for you to heal, but you will heal.” Rhi wasn’t so sure. She could feel the darkness within her, coiling and shifting. She had to fight to remember what she should do, instead of what the darkness wanted her to do. “Henry is healing nicely,” Rhi said, changing the subject. Usaeil nodded slowly. “His injuries were extensive. Had you not found him when you did, the internal bleeding would’ve killed him in a few hours. By the way, how did you find him again?” This was what Rhi had been waiting for. Everyone knew she couldn’t lie without feeling tremendous pain. She sank her nails into her palms, held Usaeil’s gaze and lied. “I found him in Dublin. As I said, I don’t know how he got there.” “So very odd.” The pain was gut wrenching. It twisted her insides and squeezed her lungs so that she couldn’t breath. Pain exploded inside her head. She began to shake. It was time for Rhi to change the subject again. “You should tell Con we have him.” The queen twisted her lips. “If I do, Con will want to come here and finish healing Henry himself, or want us to bring Henry to him. I’m not in the mood for either.” “Henry will be finished healing soon. What then? You want him to remain? In a place full of Light Fae?” Thankfully, the pain began to dull enough that Rhi could breath easier. “No,” Usaeil said with a frown. “Already his appearance has sparked interest. They’re trying to get in to see him. He’s a mortal, so he’ll succumb to any Fae he encounters.” Rhi took exception to that. “He’s stronger than that.” “He’s human, Rhi. Not a single one can resist us. It’s a fact. Henry is no different.” Rhi didn’t argue, but she knew she was right. Henry was different. She’d seen it the first time she met him in Con’s office months ago. He took in the fact his friends at Dreagan were actually dragon shifters with a nod, his solemn hazel eyes seeing things anew. She bit back a grin as she recalled how he’d become a little flustered when he saw her and learned who she was. Henry’s smile was charming, sweet . . . honest. He looked at her as if she were the only woman on the realm. Even though Rhi understood that it was the fact she was Fae that intrigued him, enthralled him, she took an instant liking to the human who never backed down.

Club Kyiv’s “exclusive” clientele seemed to consist of young rich kids intermingled with overweight businessmen in suits and gold-digging prostitutes. Bishop couldn’t tell the difference between the working girls and the women there simply for a good time. To him they all looked the same, and he had never seen so many fake breasts, collagen-enhanced lips, hair extensions, and spray tans in one spot before. These girls wore the shortest skirts he had ever seen. How the hell do they stay warm showing that much skin, he wondered. They looked ridiculous in their winter coats with skinny bare legs protruding beneath them. Like ostriches, he realized with a smile.

Ideally my penultimate day would be spent attending a giant beach party thrown in my honor. Everyone would gather around me at sunset, and the golden light would make my skin and hair beautiful as I told hilarious stories and gave away my extensive collection of moon art to my ex-lovers. I and all of my still-alive friends (which, let’s face it, will mostly be women) would sing and dance late into the night. My sons would be grown and happy. I would be frail but adorable. I would still have my own teeth, and I would be tended to by handsome and kind gay men who pruned me like a bonsai tree. Once the party ended, everyone would fall asleep except for me. I would spend the rest of the night watching the stars under a nice blanket my granddaughter made with her Knit-Bot 5000. As the sun began to rise, an unexpected guest would wake and put the coffee on. My last words would be something banal and beautiful. “Are you warm enough?” my guest would ask. “Just right,” I would answer. My funeral would be huge but incredibly intimate. I would instruct people to throw firecrackers on my funeral pyre and play Purple Rain on a loop.

It had occurred to Leaphorn earlier that Baker was not, in fact, an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He didn’t look like one. He had bad teeth, irregular and discolored, and an air of casual sloppiness, and something about him which suggested a quick, inquisitive, impatient intelligence. Leaphorn’s extensive experience with the FBI suggested that any of these three characteristics would prevent employment. The FBI people always seemed to be O’Malleys — trimmed, scrubbed, tidy, able to work untroubled by any special measure of intelligence. O’Malley was still talking. Leaphorn looked at him, wondering about this FBI policy. Where did they find so many O’Malleys? He had a sudden vision of an office in the Department of Justice building in Washington, a clerk sending out draft notices to all the male cheerleaders and drum majors at USC, Brigham Young, Arizona State, and Notre Dame, ordering them to get their hair cut and report for duty.

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Who's Vanessa?" "I don't believe you. She's only the most popular girl in the whole school." She pointed a finger at the girl in the middle of the three who were still watching Tianna closely. "Everyone knows Vanessa." Vanessa had perfect skin, large blue eyes, and luxurious blond hair that curled over her shoulders. "Are those extensions?" Tianna asked. "All hers." Corrine sighed. Vanessa was dressed in a funky white coat of fake fur that went down to her brown suede boots; underneath was a low-hanging party-girl skirt with two gold belts draped around her tan waist. "Where'd she get the clothes? They're so cool." Tianna glanced self-consciously at her own jeans. The knees were soiled, and there was a long black mark on the side, as if she had skidded in dirt or oil. "Her mom's a costume designer for the movies," Corrine confided. Tianna felt a pang of jealousy- not for the clothes, but from the mention of Vanessa's mother. She wondered where hers was. Why hadn't she been with her this morning?

She’s a PIT BULL in glittery eye shadow and hair extensions!

cobra with hoop earrings, blond hair extensions, and a spray-on tan.

The shanties of indigent newcomers to the place were scattered on one side of the crossroads, and on the other side, beyond the shops, were two stinking shebeens where drunken men squatted on the dirt floor, drooling over their home-brewed beer, while a haggard woman ladled more of it into tin cans from a plastic barrel. Outside under a tree, a man in rags, either drunk or exhausted, lay in a posture of crucifixion. Nearby were seven stalls made of rough planks. Two sold used clothes, and one sold new clothes. One offered vegetables, another milky tea and stale bread rolls for the schoolchildren. In a butcher’s shack the stallholder hacked with a machete at the black, flyblown leg of a goat. The last and most salubrious stall, labeled Real Hair, sold wigs and foot-long hair extensions. Near the shops was a shade tree under which a dozen women and about ten children sat in a friendly chatting group, some of them pounding ostrich shells into small discs, while others, using homemade tools, drilled holes in the middle, and still others threaded the punctured discs into bracelets and necklaces to sell to tourists.

Anneke, I don't know what the FUCK just got into you, but if you want to have a job here, I suggest you go home now and think about what you want to say to us tomorrow to make us want to keep you." I look him dead in his beady little eyes and with a deep sense of calm, I unload, pretty as you please with honeyed tones. "You don't have to worry, Murph. I don't want to have a job here. I'm tired of the bullshit kowtowing to entitled crap-buckets like the Mannings. I'm tired of you and Mac never giving me my due or having my back. I'm tired of you feeding all the good stuff to your obsequious cousin Liam and leaving me all the shit. I'm tired of your endless series of talentless legs and boobs and hair extensions that you like wandering around here despite their general incompetence. I'm finished. I'm the best you had and the only one you should have trained to replace you in three years when you want to retire and still draw income. And you've never once done anything to show that you know it. So, since it's clear that you will always take the word of the client over someone who has been a valuable employee for nearly a decade, I am fucking done." I never raise my voice; the smile never leaves my face. I deliver this blow with as much grace as I can muster, throw my bag over my shoulder, grab the small box of my personal effects, and push past him before he can even close his gaping jaw. I head out of my office, feeling flushed and nervous, but also giddy. Liam is standing next to the front desk, chatting up Pinky Tuscadero Barbie. "That's a lot of yelling back there, Annamuk." He leers at me. "That time of the month?" The Barbie giggles. "Hey, Liam? A word to the wise. That fancy truck? Doesn't mean you don't HAVE a tiny little dick. It just means that you want the WHOLE WORLD to know it." And with that, I open the door wide, letting the frigid wind blow through, leaving them both gape-jawed in a tornado of papers.

She’s a cobra with hoop earrings, blond hair extensions, and a spray-on tan.

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Question: “Is it real?” Thanks to the widespread popularity of hair extensions, this question is no longer asked solely within the black community. Some people are even desensitized to the question. For those who aren’t, the proper response is usually, “Is yours?” with a smile. If that person does not relent, you can try, “It’s as real as you are bold,” with a friendly chuckle. Passive aggression is absolutely appropriate in this instance. (Equal offenders: Is it yours? How long is your actual hair?) Opinion:

Calling MacKenzie a mean girl is an understatement. She’s a cobra with hoop earrings, blond hair extensions, and a spray-on tan.

Twenty-three D," he said, as a boarding-pass spooled from a different slot. He pulled her passport out and handed it to her, along with her ticket and the boarding pass. "Gate fifty-two, blue concourse. Checking anything?" "No." "Passengers who've cleared security may be subject to noninvasive DNA sampling," he said, the words all run together because he was only saying it because it was the law that he had to. She put her passport and ticket away in the special pocket inside her parka. She kept the boarding pass in her hand. She went looking for the blue concourse. She had to go downstairs to find it, and take one of those trains that was like an elevator that ran sideways. Half an hour later she was through security, looking at the seals they'd put on the zippers of her carry-on. They looked like rings of rubbery red candy. She hadn't expected them to do that; she'd thought she could find a pay-station in the departure lounge, link up, and give the club an update. They never sealed her carry-on when she went to Vancouver to stay with her uncle, but that wasn't really international, not since the Agreement. She was riding a rubber sidewalk toward Gate 52 when she saw the blue light flashing, up ahead. Soldiers there, and a little barricade. The soldiers were lining people up as they came off the sidewalk. They wore fatigues and didn't seem much older than the guys at her last school. "Shit," she heard the woman in front of her say, a big-haired blond with obvious extensions woven in.

I wasn’t getting along with Trouble and for good reason. He strolled over and made a snide remark. “Patches,” he meowed, “why do you look so worried? Has Santa got you on the Naughty List this year? Oh, look, someone left some muddy shoes by the back door. Meowr.” “GRmpf.” I snarled. “Oh. And is this a Patch-of-mud on the doormat?” mewed Trouble. “Look, Cat,” I said, “My status with Santa is a private affair. Someone with a name like yours shouldn’t be pointing paws!” “That’s so. That’s so,” he purred. “Pointing paws usually lead to flying fur and the need for hair ex-ten-sions.” Trouble did say things that made sense sometimes, in a weird sort of way. (He was trying to mes-mer-ize me with those purrs, but it wouldn’t work). “Purr--cise-ly. Oh, uh-hum, I meant to say, pre-cise-ly,” I growled, “So let’s drop the subject.” Then he PURRED at me.

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It is said that the situation is considerably better in early infancy, and that in the first six months of life an extensive injury to the dominant hemisphere may compel the normally secondary hemisphere to take its place; so that the patient appears far more nearly normal than he would be had the injury occurred at a later stage. This is quite in accordance with the general great flexibility shown by the nervous system in the early weeks of life, and the great rigidity which it rapidly develops later. It is possible that, short of such serious injuries, handedness is reasonably flexible in the very young child. However, long before the child is of school age, the natural handedness and cerebral dominance are established for life. It used to be thought that left-handedness was a serious social disadvantage. With most tools, school desks, and sports equipment primarily made for the right-handed, it certainly is to some extent. In the past, moreover, it was viewed with some of the superstitious disapproval that has attached to so many minor variations from the human norm, such as birthmarks or red hair. From a combination of motives, many people have attempted and even succeeded, in changing the external handedness of their children by education, though of course they could not change its physiological basis in hemispheric dominance. It was then found that in very many cases these hemispheric changelings suffered from stuttering and other defects of speech, reading, and writing, to the extent of seriously wounding their prospects in life and their hopes for a normal career. We now see at least one possible explanation for the phenomenon. With the education of the secondary hand, there has been a partial education of that part of the secondary hemisphere which deals with skilled motions, such as writing. Since, however, these motions are carried out in the closest possible association with reading, speech, and other activities which are inseparably connected with the dominant hemisphere, the neuron chains involved in processes of the sort must cross over from hemisphere to hemisphere and back; and in a process of any complication, they must do this again and again. Now, the direct connectors between the hemispheres—the cerebral commissures—in a brain as large as that of man are so few in number that they are of very little use, and the interhemispheric traffic must go by roundabout routes through the brain stem, which we know very imperfectly but which are certainly long, scanty, and subject to interruption. As a consequence, the processes associated with speech and writing are very likely to be involved in a traffic jam, and stuttering is the most natural thing in the world.

To create your own poppet, you’ll need: 2 large pieces of fabric or felt Scissors A needle and thread Cotton balls and/or dried lavender or rose herbs A few strands of your hair Rose quartz (optional) 1. To create the poppet, take the pieces of fabric/felt and lay them on top of one another. Cut out the shape of the doll you want to make, then sew the sides and top together. 2. Use the opening at the bottom to stuff the doll with the cotton or herbs and your hair (or other small item that symbolizes “you”). Add rose quartz if desired to symbolize high-vibe self-love. 3. Sew the bottom shut. 4. Hold the poppet in your hand and affirm that it is an extension of you. Imagine your energy radiating out from your heart into your arms, through your hands, and into the doll. Allow yourself to feel the emotions as they come, making sure to ground yourself afterward to rebalance. 5. Sleep with the poppet under your pillow for at least one night to solidify the bond. 6. Once you have bonded with your poppet, place it somewhere that is readily accessible to you. Treat it like an extension of yourself, taking care to speak to it kindly and hold it gently, giving it the respect and love that you would want from another to support you in healing. This poppet can be taken out during emotional moments, shadow work, or just when you want a visual cue to remind you that you’re a person too! The ultimate purpose is to create a proxy by which you can hold space for yourself and your healing.

You were way too busy drinking to help your brother with the business, much less to deal with the fact that he was obviously not meant for that soulless Barbie doll. Bayou Barbie, that’s her new name. You didn’t save him from Bayou Barbie and it cost him years of his life.” She reached over and held up the hair extension. “You want to know how to handle her? You take her down. I already got one trophy, Zep. Don’t make me take yours.

Android Girl Just Wants to Have a Baby! The first thing I do when I wake up is run my hands over my body. I like to make sure all my wires are in place. I lotion my silicone shell and snap my hair helmet over my head. I once had a dream I was a real girl, but when I woke up I was still myself in my paleness under the halogen light. The saliva of androids emits a spectral resonance, barely sticky between freshly-gapped teeth. After they made me, the first thing they did was peel the cellophane from my eyes. I blinked once, twice, and cried because that's how you say you are alive before you are given language. They named each of my heartbeats on the oceanic monitor: Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I listened to them blur into one. The fetus carves for itself a hollowed vector, a fragile wetness. In utero, extension cords are umbilical. Before puberty, I did not know there was such a thing as dishonor. Diss-on- her. This is what they said when I began to drip petrol between my legs. A tension exists between ritual and proof, a fantasy and its execution. Since then, I have been to the emergency room twice. The first time for a suicide attempt, and the second time because my earring was swallowed up by my newly pierced earlobe overnight, and when I woke up, it was tangled in a helix of wires. The idea of dying doesn't scare me but the ocean does. I was once told that fish will swim up my orifices if I am no longer a virgin. Is anyone thinking about erotic magazines when they are not aroused, pubes parted harshly down the center like red seas? My body carries the weight of four hundred eggs. I rise from a weird slumber, let them drip into the bath. This is what I'll leave behind - tiny shards purer than me. I have always been afraid of pregnant women because of their power, and because I don't yet understand what it means to carry something stubborn and blossoming inside of me, screeching towards an exit. The ectoplasm is the telos for the wound. A trance state is induced when salt is poured on it, pixel by pixel. I wish they had made me into an octopus instead, because octopuses die after their eggs hatch and crawl out into the sea, and I want to know what it's like to set something free into the dark unknown and trust it to choose mercy. If you can generate aura in a non-place, then there is no such thing as an authentic origin. In Chinese, the word for mercy translates to my heart hurts for you. They say my heart continues beating even after it is dislocated from my body. The sound of its beating comes from the valves opening and closing like a portal - Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I first learned about love by watching a sex tape where a girl looks up from performing fellatio and says, show them the sunset. Her boyfriend pans the camera to the sky, which is tinged violet like a bruise. In this moment, the sky displaces her, all digital and hyped, and saturates the scene until it collapses on me too, its transient witness. I move in the space between belly ring and catharsis. That night I have a dream where I am a camgirl, but all I do on screen is wash my laundry. Everybody loves me because I am a real girl doing real girl things. What lives on the border between meditation and oblivion, static and flux, a pomegranate seed and an embryo? I set up my webcam in the corner of the room and play ambient music while I scrub my underwear, letting soap bubbles rise up from the sink, laughing when they overflow on the linoleum floor - my frizzy hair, my pockmarked skin, my face slick with sweat. A body with exit wounds. I ride the bright rails of an animal forgetting. And when I wake up, the sky is a mess of blue.

So they told me that, according to the most advanced theories and techniques in every field, based on extensive theoretical research and experimentation, through analysis and comparison of multiple proposals, they did find a way to preserve information for about one hundred million years. And they emphasized that this was the only method known to be practicable. Which is—” Luo Ji lifted the cane over his head, and as his white hair and beard danced in the air, he resembled Moses parting the Red Sea. Solemnly, he intoned, “—carving words into stone.

Tristan ran his fingers through his hair and was so incredibly glad not to meet the long tangles he'd been dealing with for weeks. Makeup had kindly removed the extensions he'd had in for filming and he hadn't even put any product in his hair after washing it, so it was curling wildly. Being free of the black contacts he'd been wearing was also heaven and he had every intention of enjoying the wrap party to the fullest.

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Because beauty wasn’t big boobs and hair extensions. It wasn’t immaculate make-up and on-trend clothes. It wasn’t even a perfect face, with symmetrical features and unblemished skin. It

Sometimes I find human nature to be real disappointing,” Lula said. “I guess that’s why God made metallic extensions and pink hair dye. Sometimes you gotta compensate.

The word “meme” was coined by Richard Dawkins in his seminal 1978 work The Selfish Gene. The basic idea is that human cultural practices—tying one’s hair in a pony-tail versus tying it in intricate braids, wearing watches versus wearing extensive bangles, or holding racist views—spread like biological genes. Some memes take hold of the public’s mind, proliferate quickly, and along the way morph and shift to the sender’s viewpoints. The word “meme” picked up steam later in the 1970s, as Dawkins’s work sparked an entire field, called memetics, to study these phenomena.

Potassium can lower blood pressure.172 That is particularly important to reduce the risk of a stroke. A too-high blood pressure damages the thousands of miles of hair-thin blood vessels in our brain, an organ that needs a continuously high supply of oxygen and nutrients and therefore has a very extensive network of blood vessels.

Installing tape-in hair extensions on short hair may initially seem daunting, but fear not! With the right technique and a touch of patience, you can achieve stunning, voluminous locks. In this step-by-step guide, we'll walk you through the process, providing clear instructions and helpful tips to ensure a seamless installation. Supplies You'll Need: Before diving in, gather the following supplies: tape-in hair extensions, sectioning clips, a fine-tooth comb, hair cutting shears (optional), a hair straightener (optional), and hair extension adhesive remover (if reusing extensions). Step 1: Prepare Your Hair and Section It Begin by thoroughly washing and drying your hair. If desired, straighten your natural hair with a flat iron to facilitate blending. Next, use sectioning clips to divide your hair into manageable sections, starting with a horizontal parting at the nape of your neck and working your way up. Step 2: Get the Extensions Ready Lay out the tape-in hair extensions, ensuring they're in the correct order for installation. If you're reusing extensions, carefully remove any remaining adhesive using a hair extension adhesive remover. Step 3: Measure, Trim, and Apply the First Extension Hold a tape-in extension against your scalp, starting from the bottom of a sectioned hair portion. Measure it against your natural hair length and trim accordingly, leaving a small gap between the extension and your scalp. Remove the protective backing from one side of the tape and press it firmly against the roots of your hair, just below the sectioned hair. Step 4: Sandwich and Repeat Take another tape-in extension with the sticky side exposed and place it over the top of the first extension, sandwiching your natural hair in between. Apply firm pressure to secure the extensions together. Repeat this process, working your way up in rows until you reach the top of your head. Step 5: Blend, Style, and Maintain Use a fine-tooth comb to blend your natural hair with the extensions, ensuring a seamless look. Style your hair as desired, using heat tools or styling products if needed. Follow the maintenance guidelines provided by the hair extension manufacturer to keep your extensions looking their best, and avoid excessive heat or oily products near the tape area to prevent slippage. Step 6: Removal Process When it's time to remove the extensions, use a professional hair extension adhesive remover for a gentle and safe removal process. Conclusion: By following this comprehensive guide, you'll confidently install tape-in hair extensions on short hair, unleashing a world of voluminous and glamorous hairstyles. Remember to take your time, follow the instructions diligently, and seek professional assistance if necessary. Embrace the transformation and enjoy your stunning new look!

Calling MacKenzie a MEAN GIRL is an understatement. She’s PURE EVIL in hair extensions and sparkly nail polish.

Sorry, the only woman’s world he’s rocking now is mine,” Maggie said. The brunette’s flirty smile flattened. “I heard he doesn’t do exclusive.” “He was just waiting for the right one.” Maggie smiled. “He’s hot, so I don’t blame you for trying.” She slid a hand along his abs. The woman shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll be back on the market soon.” She winked at Ace. “Find me when you are.” “And I’m sure I can tear those bad extensions out of your hair.” “Maggie—” Ace’s warning was laced with amusement. “Look, tonight, he’ll be rocking my world,” Maggie said. “And in about eight months, he’s going to be rocking our baby to sleep, so don’t count on him tracking you down.

Chrysalis Custom Hair caters to women experiencing hair loss. We stock an extensive collection of high-quality wigs - both human hair and synthetic. Our skilled, experienced, and compassionate stylists can create exact replicas of clients’ hair to help them feel comfortable and confident. Look amazing with luxurious hair that makes you feel like you again! No matter what the reason for hair loss, our team wants everyone to leave as beautiful on the outside as they are on the inside.

With each step, one of them pulled off an earring or a hair extension or a bow and let it fall to the ground, so that by the time they reached the door they had left a trail of glittering accessories behind them. It looked like a grand parade had passed by, and no one had yet come to sweep up the confetti.

Mama Story: Hayley, age 30 When Hayley came to Christa, she suffered from polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), an endocrine system disorder that can cause ovaries to collect a small amount of fluid, resulting in prolonged menstrual periods and elevated testosterone levels that can cause excessive hair growth and acne. She also had chronic constipation, burned-out adrenal glands, low energy, poor diet, leaky gut, and emotional distress. She had wanted to get pregnant at some time in her thirties but it seemed a far-flung hope since PCOS is a well-known cause of female infertility. Some consider it the leading cause. After an extensive stool panel, we determined she had an intestinal parasite wreaking havoc on her hormones and causing most of her physical and emotional problems. We eliminated the parasite and healed her leaky gut, which dramatically improved her digestion and energy levels and supported her adrenal glands and hormone production. She then got pregnant and miscarried. With wonderful support from her family and friends, she worked through the difficult emotional struggle and mourning period that followed. After further testing, we then discovered she had the MTHFR genetic mutation, which impeded her ability to convert folate and thwarted her detoxification pathways. She then did a liver cleanse and rebuilding process and took methylated B vitamins. Hayley now has a healthy baby boy!

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Eww!” Kendra says, shuddering and clamping her hands on her hair, as if a swarm of bats is about to fly in and try to nest there. “I hate bats!” “I bet you’ve never even seen a bat,” Kelly says pragmatically. “Anyway, they don’t want us. They want the mosquitos. You heard her.” “Come outside!” Luca calls over his shoulder. “It’s very lovely out here!” Kelly and Paige need no encouragement, and both shoot out onto the terrace. Kelly wants to watch the bats; Paige wants to try to pry Luca from Elisa, as far as I can make out. “The bats sleep in the cipressi,” Luca explains, his voice carrying clearly in the still night air. “Because it is dark in there, and they like the dark. And in Italy, we have the cipressi always by the cimiteri--” “Cemeteries,” Elisa translates, still clinging proprietorially to his arm. “So people think, oh, bats love the cimiteri, they are very Gotici.” “Gothic,” Elisa prompts. “Got-tic,” Luca attempts. “But really, the bats like the cipressi. They are not really Gotici. They just like the dark inside.” “Well, that’s a pretty good definition of Gothic,” Kelly observes, and Luca turns to her. I step back, farther inside the salon. Watching Luca surrounded by girls, all vying for his attention, Elisa attached to him like a nasty growth that will need extensive surgery to remove, is not my idea of a fun time.

The repetition of gender acts in reality television becomes grossly stylized through artificially tanned skin, elaborate hair extensions, dramatic makeup, surgically enhanced bodies, and chemically injected faces.

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Femininity in general is seen as frivolous. People often say feminine people are doing “the most,” meaning that to don a dress, heels, lipstick, and big hair is artifice, fake, and a distraction. But I knew even as a teenager that my femininity was more than just adornments; they were extensions of me, enabling me to express myself and my identity. My body, my clothes, and my makeup are on purpose, just as I am on purpose.