Henna Quotes

We liked to be known as the clever girls. When we decorated our hands with henna for holidays and weddings, we drew calculus and chemical formulae instead of flowers and butterflies.

Sometimes there's nothing you can do. [...] Sometimes they don't have enough to fight with.

She’s inching forward. Is there a heterosexual explanation for why she’s inching forward?

I've never really thought about having a type. I guess my type is....beautiful girl. Which is a lot of them. Most of them? Pretty much all girls.

there were three kinds of karma: the accumulated karma from all our past lives; the karma we created in this life; and the karma we stored to ripen in our future lives.

Success was ephemeral—and fluid—as I’d found out the hard way. It came. It went. It changed you from the outside, but not from the inside. Inside, I was still the same girl who dreamed of a destiny greater than she was allowed. Did I really need the house to prove I had skill, talent, ambition, intelligence? What if—

What I want more than anything else in the world is to feel like being myself isn't something that should be hidden and a secret. What I want is for my parents to be outraged that someone betrayed me, not ashamed of my identity.

See the world through the eyes of your inner child. The eyes that sparkle in awe and amazement as they see love, magic and mystery in the most ordinary things.

Hadn’t Gandhi-ji said, An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind?

Though there had been moments of beauty in it Mariam knew that life for most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again, wished to hear the clangor of her laugh, to sit with her once more for a pot of chai and leftover halwa under a starlit sky. She mourned that she would never see Aziza grow up, would not see the beautiful young woman that she would one day become, would not get to paint her hands with henna and toss noqul candy at her wedding. She would never play with Aziza's children. She would have liked that very much , to be old and play with Aziza's children. Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad , Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings.

People are more gullible and less compassionate than any of us want to believe.

I’m standing for … me. For you. For us, I guess.” It doesn’t seem like much. But sometimes just being yourself—really, truly yourself—can be the most difficult thing to be

What I want more than anything else in the world is to feel like being myself isn’t something that should be hidden and a secret.

This is one of those moments that I want to bottle up and keep with me forever. Not because it's extraordinary, or because it's the kind of thing you would find in a Bollywood movie. But because it's the kind of moment I could never have dreamed of having in a million years.

Now, there is a tendency at a point like this to look over one’s shoulder at the cover artist and start going on at length about leather, tightboots and naked blades. Words like ‘full’, ‘round’ and even ‘pert’ creep into the narrative, until the writer has to go and have a cold shower and a lie down. Which is all rather silly, because any woman setting out to make a living by the sword isn’t about to go around looking like something off the cover of the more advanced kind of lingerie catalogue for the specialized buyer. Oh well, all right. The point that must be made is that although Herrena the Henna-Haired Harridan would look quite stunning after a good bath, a heavy-duty manicure, and the pick of the leather racks in Woo Hun Ling’s Oriental Exotica and Martial Aids on Heroes Street, she was currently quite sensibly dressed in light chain mail, soft boots, and a short sword. All right, maybe the boots were leather. But not black.

Brahma and Airavata Long ago in lands of golden sand Brahma turned to Saraswati and gently kissed her inked hand....

He deserves paradise who makes his companions laugh.

It doesn’t seem like much. But sometimes just being yourself—really, truly yourself—can be the most difficult thing to be.

At this moment, sitting in front of this good, sensible woman, I wanted the thing I hated most in this world. Sympathy. Even more, I hated that I wanted it. Hated myself for my weakness.

I shrug and smile amiably the way you do when you're in a foreign country and have no idea what anyone is saying, so you end up grinning and nodding your way into a three-way with a henna vendor and a camel.

Our imperfections are what create authentic connections with one another.

Just then, my mother’s words echoed in my head: stretch your legs only as far as your bed. I was getting too far ahead of myself.

Henna: Hi. Remember me? Bodhi: Hi. I’m pretty sure you’re still my greatest memory.

The thought of telling someone about this feels almost as bad as the fact that it happened.

Be with a person who treats you like their crown, proudly honoring you infront of the world. Not with someone who treats you like a trophy, secured for their sense of achievement

Before independence, these objects had signified my ladies’ admiration for the British. Now, they signified their scorn. My ladies had changed nothing but the reasons for their pretense. If I had learned anything from them, it was this: only a fool lives in water and remains an enemy of the crocodile.

Doctor, teacher, engineer, our Nishat could be anything she wants to be," Abbu says, clapping me on the back proudly. It's the most he's said to me in weeks, but there's a plasticity to his smile, a solemness to his voice. Nishat can be anything she wants to be, except herself.

And one day, as she was buried deep in her thoughts, she heard a still small voice ask her "If you could go back in life, what would you have done differently?" And without missing a beat she answered, "I would have chosen me" And finally, she made the choice..

Independence changed everything. Independence changed nothing.

I promise to love you the most, no matter what. Even when we’re old and disheveled and dying and you’re somehow more annoying than you already are, I’ll still love you.

Maturity is when you let your inner child speak and your adult self listen without any bondages

Old Spice           Every Sunday afternoon he dresses in his old army uniform, tells you the name of every man he killed. His knuckles are unmarked graves.   Visit him on a Tuesday and he will describe the body of every woman he could not save. He’ll say she looked like your mother and you will feel a storm in your stomach.   Your grandfather is from another generation– Russian degrees and a school yard Cuban national anthem, communism and religion. Only music makes him cry now.   He married his first love, her with the long curls down to the small of her back. Sometimes he would pull her to him, those curls wrapped around his hand like rope.   He lives alone now. Frail, a living memory reclining in a seat, the room orbiting around him. You visit him but never have anything to say. When he was your age he was a man. You retreat into yourself whenever he says your name.   Your mother’s father, “the almost martyr, can load a gun under water in under four seconds.   Even his wedding night was a battlefield. A Swiss knife, his young bride, his sobs as he held Italian linen between her legs.   His face is a photograph left out in the sun, the henna of his beard, the silver of his eyebrows the wilted handkerchief, the kufi and the cane.   Your grandfather is dying. He begs you Take me home yaqay, I just want to see it one last time; you don’t know how to tell him that it won’t be anything like the way he left it.

I feel my stomach drop even though my little crush on Flávia is supposed I have disappeared. I guess it's not that simple to get over someone. I still have a thing for Taylor Swift, after all - even though I hate all of her white feminism nonsense.

If Los Angeles is a woman reclining billboard model and the San Fernando Valley is her teenybopper sister, then New York is their cousin. Her hair is dyed autumn red or aubergine or Egyptian henna, depending on her mood. Her skin is pale as frost and she wears beautiful Jil Sander suits and Prada pumps on which she walks faster than a speeding taxi (when it is caught in rush hour, that is). Her lips are some unlikely shade of copper or violet, courtesy of her local MAC drag queen makeup consultant. She is always carrying bags of clothes, bouquets of roses, take-out Chinese containers, or bagels. Museum tags fill her pockets and purses, along with perfume samples and invitations to art gallery openings. When she is walking to work, to ward off bums or psychos, her face resembles the Statue of Liberty, but at home in her candlelit, dove-colored apartment, the stony look fades away and she smiles like the sterling roses she has brought for herself to make up for the fact that she is single and her feet are sore.

Hope is not a sin, neither is fidelity.

The moment you learn the lesson, the test will be over.

The one-eyed man is king among the blind,” I replied, smiling.

My younger sister was lively and curious, which was good, but she was also untamed—and that could be a dangerous combination.

Perfection is not about being better than anyone else. It is the state of peace when you have accepted your unique flawed self

Success was ephemeral—and fluid—as I’d found out the hard way. It came. It went. It changed you from the outside, but not from the inside.

White people like to pretend that race is only as deep as the color of our skin—maybe because the color of their skin gets them so many benefits.

Not once had I believed him capable of change. But if I could change, why couldn’t he?

Because of course Muslims can be gay. How can anyone even think otherwise? The two aren’t mutually exclusive. I am living, breathing proof.

If I had learned anything from them, it was this: only a fool lives in water and remains an enemy of the crocodile.

Your real battle is not with the outside world, it is with an enemy that hides deep within you. Find it, Fight it and Set yourself free. The key to your freedom lies in your deepest fear.

Most of us think that being authentic is about being true to what we want and who we are, without regard for the impact it has on others. On the contrary, the authentic self is an intelligence at the core of who we are that is inspired, centered, and connected to those we lead. When we are in this centered place of being we are able to choose behavior that serves the greatest good.

In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews. The rumormongers made sure of that. Blame lay heavily in my chest. Had I not deserted my marriage, Radha would not have suffered so much, and Maa and Pitaji would not have been so powerless against an entire village.

In a world led with a herd mentality, it takes immense courage, resolve and sacrifice to maintain the purity of your form. You have to be at peace with being misunderstood. You have to be at peace with walking alone. You have to be at peace with being judged. In the end just remember, "If the world is an array of art, You are the Masterpiece

Authenticity is not possible without embracing the “and” within us. Our minds like to categorize things into neatly labeled boxes. Am I right, or is she right? Let’s stretch our minds to I can be right and so can she. Embracing the “and” is like yoga for the brain. When we train ourselves to hold paradoxes by stretching ourselves out of the boxes our minds create, we stretch into new possibilities and adapt more quickly in a fast-changing world.

Hope is not a sin, and neither is fidelity.

Only befriend those who offer encouragements instead of advice.” Henna

The struggle to live up to an “ideal image” of who we should be in order to feel safe misdirects and depletes our energy.

To change any behavior we have to slow down and act intentionally rather than from habit and impulse.

Being Human is inherited, Behaving Human is a choice

When the Goddess of Wealth comes to give you her blessing, you shouldn’t leave the room to wash your face. —Hindu Proverb

Her definition of a stranger: "The person staring back at me in the mirror

Pain has creative power, Let the magic unfold...

The ultimate test of your character is how secure you feel in helping others succeed and come up higher

The poor weren’t the only ones imprisoned by their caste.

Sometimes just being yourself-really, truly yourself-can be the most difficult thing to be.

Authenticity is our natural state of being. The authentic self is a state of being where we are centered, creative, adaptive, and inspired.

Every single scar on her soul testifies of the times when she ignored the voice of her spirit

Maybe ... sometimes people don't see the things they do as wrong, but they can see the wrong in what other people do - especially if it's done to someone they care about ... When it happens to someone else, it doesn't feel as important as when it happens to someone we love.

Saasuji once told me there were three kinds of karma: the accumulated karma from all our past lives; the karma we created in this life; and the karma we stored to ripen in our future lives.

Like everything in the world has fallen away to make space for this moment, for the rhythmic breathing of the two of us, side by side. Despite the cold, the rain, and the damp, the warmth of Flávia’s body is a palpitating thing next to me. The heat of her is stronger than any Irish sun.

Spend lavishly on creams. Wash your hair with henna at the first sign of gray. Never spend one minute thinking about what you do not have. And most importantly, indulge in everything but love.

Don’t believe everything you think. Our minds are thought-creating machines. Most of these thoughts are fear-based. Our authentic self has the power to pick the thoughts that best serve us and those we lead.

Bantams in Pine-Woods" Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan Of tan with henna hackles, halt! Damned universal cock, as if the sun Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail. Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal. Your world is you. I am my world. You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat! Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines, Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs, And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.

Jared exhales a long, long time. “Dude.” I just swallow. It’s loud in the silence. “I think it’s starting again.” “It’s probably just the pressure of everything,” Jared offers. “Finals, your massively unrequited love for Henna–” “Don’t say unrequited.” “. . . your massively invisible love for Henna . . .” I hit him on the arm. It’s friendly. More silence.

Roohon ke hai yeh rishte, Zaroorat, majboori, sahoolat se pare, Bandish nahi phir bhi farrar nahi, Kuch aise yeh saath hai

I had spent all the years I had been in Lo-Melkhiin’s body giving power to men who I thought would use it in ways that might serve me. I had given them great art and great thoughts, and they never guessed that they fed a terrible hunger in me that would require feeding until they died trying to sate it. They had done great things and made great tales, but I had been blind. All of this time, I had had access to more power than I had imagined, and I had missed it because I saw with men’s eyes. I had forgotten the girls who scrubbed the floors and spun the yarn. I had forgotten the women who dyed the cloth and worked with henna. I had married three hundred girls, and as much as eaten them all before they were done cooking.

Positive energy is unleashed when leaders give themselves permission to connect and express themselves from the core of who they are. When leaders practice authenticity, creativity, engagement, confidence, and a sense of inner resourcefulness emerge.

Samir Singh frequented the pleasure houses of Hazi and Nasreen whenever he had business in Agra. There, Muslim noblemen, Bengali businessmen and Hindu doctors and lawyers smoked hookahs, and ate and drank as the courtesans recited ancient poetry, sang sweet, nostalgic ghazals and performed

Your stomach isn't the boss of you,' Mel says evenly. 'Oh,' Jared says, realizing. 'Sorry-' Mel shakes her head, brushing it off. 'Not what I meant. Your heart isn't the boss of you other. Thinks it is. Isn't. You can always choose. Always.' 'You can't choose not to feel,' Henna says. 'But you can choose how to act.

Most of us want to be authentic. Yet, we are not who we think we are. We are made up of a rich array of facets and possibilities, many of which we ignore because we label them as “bad”. We create a cardboard cutout image of ourselves to look good to others. The discord between who we are and the image we have to live up to slowly kills our aliveness. When we suppress parts of ourselves, it lowers our mojo, sense of fulfillment, leadership effectiveness and impact in the workplace.

Authentic leaders inspire us to engage with each other in powerful dreams that make the impossible possible. We are called on to persevere despite failure and pursue a purpose beyond the paycheck. This is at the core of innovation. It requires aligning the dreams of each individual to the broader dream of the organization.

It's not easy, but do it anyway It's not easy to love, when you get resentment in return. Love anyway... Its not easy to forgive, when you get hurt in return. Forgive anyway... It's not easy to be kind, when you get rudeness in return. Be kind anyway... It's not easy to empathise, when you are judged in return. Empathise anyway... It's not easy, but do it anyway... Let your light shine in the lives of those around you. And one day it will brighten their hearts and overpower the darkness within.

I felt my spirits lift. I would leave the map of my life here, in Jaipur. I would leave behind a hundred thousand henna strikes. I would no longer call myself a henna artist but tell anyone who asked : I healed, I soothed. I made whole. I would leave behind the useless apologies for my disobedience. I would leave behind my yearning to rewrite my past. My skills, my eagerness to learn and my desire for a life I could call my own - these were things I would take with me. They were part of me the way my blood, my breath, my bones were

When we decorated our hands with henna for holidays and weddings, we drew calculus and chemical formulae instead of flowers and butterflies.

Mrs. Mitchell,” Henna greets, her voice three sizes smaller than a minute ago.

Our suppressing who we are to fit in is exhausting. It kills flow and creativity. It also prevents genuine connection with others.

The real you focuses on goals that inspire you and doesn’t let “that’s just not me!” stand in the way.

I do, and the now-familiar warmth of his lips steadies me. He tastes of salt and the wine we shared with the others at our small farewell party. Aladdin pulls away first and lifts one of my hands to his lips, kissing the delicate henna patterns on my skin, then turning my arm over to kiss the inside of my wrist. The ship’s crew makes themselves busy on the other side of the ship, giving us privacy. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world,” Aladdin murmurs. “Have I ever told you that?” “Enough to make me wonder if your father was a parrot.

Where perfumed rivers flow, Is the home of my beloved. Where passing breezes halt, Is the home of my beloved. Where dawn arrives on bare toes, Where night paints henna-beams on feet, Where fragrance bathes in moonlight, Is the home of my beloved. Where rays of light roam nakedly, In green forests of sandalwood. Where the flame seeks the lamp, Is the home of my beloved. Where sunsets sleep on wide waters, And the deer leap. Where tears fall for no reason, Is the home of my beloved. Where the farmer sleeps hungry, Even though the wheat is the color of my beloved, Where the wealthy ones lie in hiding, Is the home of my beloved. Where perfumed rivers flow, Is the home of my beloved. Where passing breezes halt, Is the home of my beloved.

I had henna done once at a street fair outside the bookstore where I worked in high school," Zoey said. "Vines, all down my fingers, like that. Only not as pretty as yours." "Vines symbolize perseverance," Charlotte said. "Flowers mean joy. The sun represents eternal love. And the moon, here, is the power of change." She pointed to her knee. "Birds are supposed to be messengers between heaven and earth." She indicated a peacock on the other knee. Birds had always been her favorite to draw. Then she touched a circle on her leg at the hem of her cutoffs. "This is a mandala. It represents the universe." Zoey looked impressed. "I had no idea it all meant something." Charlotte put her hands back in her pockets. "In all my years, I've never encountered something that doesn't mean anything.

wind picks up a little more (Terribly sorry, I imagine it saying; apparently, the wind is British, wondering how it got all the way over here) and Henna has to snap her hand down on a page of an assignment that’s threatening to fly away. “Why do we even have paper anymore?” “Books,” Jared says. “Toilet paper,” Mel says. “Because paper is a thing,” I say, “and sometimes you need things rather than just thoughts.

The elderly ladies were rouged and mascaraed and hennaed and used blue hair rinse and eye shadow and wore costume jewelry, and many of them were proud and stared at you with expressions that did not belong to their age.

Maa was gentle, but firm. She was brought up to obey her parents and her husband, not to defy, question or contradict. She told me Pitaji’s books had filled my head with too many silly ideas. They had given me the useless notion that I could make my own decisions.

The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end. —From the poem Journey Home by Rabindranath Tagore When the Goddess of Wealth comes to give you her blessing, you shouldn’t leave the room to wash your face. —Hindu Proverb

When you're going through something like this, you don't know what you're doing, even if you think you do. And no one can really understand what it's like unless they've suffered the same thing. You feel isolated. You go places and people avoid you, are afraid to meet your eyes and make conversation because they don't know what to say. So they whisper to each other ... You feel as if you're living inside a cave. You're afraid to be alone, afraid to be with others, afraid to be awake, and afraid to go to sleep because of how awful it feels when morning comes. You run like hell and wear yourself out. As I look back, I can see that everything I've done since Henna died was half crazy.

Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the record of our hearts. It is the moonlit night of March; the sweet smell of henna is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your garland of flowers in unfinished. This love between you and me is simple as a song. Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk. The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like praise. It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet useless struggles. This love between you and me is simple as a song. No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark. This love between you and me is simple as a song. We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope. It is enough what we give and we get. We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the wine of pain. This love between you and me is simple as a song.

Confused? Confusion is good. It’s an excellent place to learn something new from.

People think - Rebel, Adamant, Egoistic, Impractical, Proud My answer - Unconventional, Fighter, Uncompromising, Dreamer, God's Masterpiece Perception Matters

I am a little nervous," I admit after a moment's hesitation. Ammu didn't say anything as I left the house this morning, but I noticed she had taken out the jainamaz, or prayer rug, and actually said a few prayers last night. I can't quite shake the hypocrisy of that--but I guess we're all hypocrites about one thing or the other. I feel like her silence spoke volumes. It always does.

Independence changed everything. Independence changed nothing. Eight years after the British left, we now had free government schools, running water and paved roads. But Jaipur still felt the same to me as it had ten years ago, the first time I stepped foot on its dusty soil. On the way to our first appointment of the morning, Malik and I nearly collided with a man carrying cement bags on his head when a bicycle cut between us. The cyclist, hugging a six-foot ladder under his arm, caused a horse carriage to sideswipe a pig, who ran squealing into a narrow alley. At one point, we stepped aside and waited for a raucous band of hijras to pass. The sari-clad, lipstick-wearing men were singing and dancing in front of a house to bless the birth of a baby boy. So accustomed were we to the odors of the city—cow dung, cooking fires, coconut hair oil, sandalwood incense and urine—that we barely noticed them.

this particular hero was a heroine. A redheaded one. Now, there is a tendency at a point like this to look over one’s shoulder at the cover artist and start going on at length about leather, thighboots and naked blades. Words like “full,” “round” and even “pert” creep into the narrative, until the writer has to go and have a cold shower and a lie down. Which is all rather silly, because any woman setting out to make a living by the sword isn’t about to go around looking like something off the cover of the more advanced kind of lingerie catalogue for the specialized buyer. Oh well, all right. The point that must be made is that although Herrena the Henna-Haired Harridan would look quite stunning after a good bath, a heavy-duty manicure, and the pick of the leather racks in Woo Hun Ling’s Oriental Exotica and Martial Aids on Heroes Street, she was currently quite sensibly dressed in light chain mail, soft boots and a short sword. All right, maybe the boots were leather. But not black.

If Los Angeles is a woman reclining billboard model and the San Fernando Valley is her teenybopper sister, then New York is their cousin. Her hair is dyed autumn or aubergine or Egyptian henna, depending on her mood. Her skin is pale as frost and she wears beautiful Jil Sander suits and Prada pumps on which she walks faster than a speeding taxi (when it is caught in rush hour, that is). Her lips are some unlikely shade of copper or violet, courtesy of her local MAC drag queen makeup consultant.

Though there had been moments of beauty in it, Mariam knew that life for the most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again, wished to hear the clamour of her laugh, to sit with her once more for a pot of chai and left over halwa under a starlit sky. She mourned that she would never see Aziza grow up, would not see the beautiful young woman that she would one day become, would not get to paint her hands with henna and toss noqul candy at her wedding. She would never play with Aziza's children. She would have liked that very much, to be old and play with Aziza's children. Near the goalpost, the man behind her asked her to stop. Mariam did. Through the crisscrossing grid of the burqa, she saw his shadow arms lift his shadow Kalashnikov. Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad, Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings. Mariam's final thoughts were a few words from the Koran, which she muttered under her breath. He has created the heavens and the earth with the truth; He makes the night cover the day and makes the day overtake the night, and He has made the sun and the moon subservient; each one runs on to an assigned term; now surely He is the Mighty, the Great Forgiver. "Kneel," the Talib said O my Lord! Forgive and have mercy, for you are the best of the merciful ones. "Kneel here, hamshira and look down." One last time, Mariam did as she was told.

My family had been in a refugee camp for a year and I was thirty-one years old when the government of Israel arranged through secret channels to fly all the Jews of Yemen to Israel. It was unofficially called Operation Magic Carpet, and officially called Operation On Wings of Eagles. When our people refused to enter the airplanes out of fear—for especially our brethren from the North had no experience with modernity—our rabbis reminded them of divine passages. “This is the fulfillment of ancient prophecy,” they said. “The eagles that fly us to the Promised Land may be made of metal, but their wings are buoyed aloft by the breath of God.” Between June 1949 and September 1950 almost fifty thousand Yemenite Jews boarded transport planes and made some 380 flights from Aden to Israel in this secret operation.

It's hard to form a lasting connection when your permanent address is an eight-inch mailbox in the UPS store. Still,as I inch my way closer, I can't help the way my breath hitches, the way my insides thrum and swirl. And when he turns,flashing me that slow, languorous smile that's about to make him world famous,his eyes meeting mine when he says, "Hey,Daire-Happy Sweet Sixteen," I can't help but think of the millions of girls who would do just about anything to stand in my pointy blue babouches. I return the smile, flick a little wave of my hand, then bury it in the side pocket of the olive-green army jacket I always wear. Pretending not to notice the way his gaze roams over me, straying from my waist-length brown hair peeking out from my scarf, to the tie-dyed tank top that clings under my jacket,to the skinny dark denim jeans,all the way down to the brand-new slippers I wear on my feet. "Nice." He places his foot beside mine, providing me with a view of the his-and-hers version of the very same shoe. Laughing when he adds, "Maybe we can start a trend when we head back to the States.What do you think?" We. There is no we. I know it.He knows it.And it bugs me that he tries to pretend otherwise. The cameras stopped rolling hours ago, and yet here he is,still playing a role. Acting as though our brief, on-location hookup means something more. Acting like we won't really end long before our passports are stamped RETURN. And that's all it takes for those annoyingly soft girly feelings to vanish as quickly as a flame in the rain. Allowing the Daire I know,the Daire I've honed myself to be, to stand in her palce. "Doubtful." I smirk,kicking his shoe with mine.A little harder then necessary, but then again,he deserves it for thinking I'm lame enough to fall for his act. "So,what do you say-food? I'm dying for one of those beef brochettes,maybe even a sausage one too.Oh-and some fries would be good!" I make for the food stalls,but Vane has another idea. His hand reaches for mine,fingers entwining until they're laced nice and tight. "In a minute," he says,pulling me so close my hip bumps against his. "I thought we might do something special-in honor of your birthday and all.What do you think about matching tattoos?" I gape.Surely he's joking. "Yeah,you know,mehndi. Nothing permanent.Still,I thought it could be kinda cool." He arcs his left brow in his trademark Vane Wick wau,and I have to fight not to frown in return. Nothing permanent. That's my theme song-my mission statement,if you will. Still,mehndi's not quite the same as a press-on. It has its own life span. One that will linger long after Vane's studio-financed, private jet lifts him high into the sky and right out of my life. Though I don't mention any of that, instead I just say, "You know the director will kill you if you show up on set tomorrow covered in henna." Vane shrugs. Shrugs in a way I've seen too many times, on too many young actors before him.He's in full-on star-power mode.Think he's indispensable. That he's the only seventeen-year-old guy with a hint of talent,golden skin, wavy blond hair, and piercing blue eyes that can light up a screen and make the girls (and most of their moms) swoon. It's a dangerous way to see yourself-especially when you make your living in Hollywood. It's the kind of thinking that leads straight to multiple rehab stints, trashy reality TV shows, desperate ghostwritten memoirs, and low-budget movies that go straight to DVD.