Luxury Salon Quotes

One of my greatest fears is family decline.There’s an old Chinese saying that “prosperity can never last for three generations.” I’ll bet that if someone with empirical skills conducted a longitudinal survey about intergenerational performance, they’d find a remarkably common pattern among Chinese immigrants fortunate enough to have come to the United States as graduate students or skilled workers over the last fifty years. The pattern would go something like this: • The immigrant generation (like my parents) is the hardest-working. Many will have started off in the United States almost penniless, but they will work nonstop until they become successful engineers, scientists, doctors, academics, or businesspeople. As parents, they will be extremely strict and rabidly thrifty. (“Don’t throw out those leftovers! Why are you using so much dishwasher liquid?You don’t need a beauty salon—I can cut your hair even nicer.”) They will invest in real estate. They will not drink much. Everything they do and earn will go toward their children’s education and future. • The next generation (mine), the first to be born in America, will typically be high-achieving. They will usually play the piano and/or violin.They will attend an Ivy League or Top Ten university. They will tend to be professionals—lawyers, doctors, bankers, television anchors—and surpass their parents in income, but that’s partly because they started off with more money and because their parents invested so much in them. They will be less frugal than their parents. They will enjoy cocktails. If they are female, they will often marry a white person. Whether male or female, they will not be as strict with their children as their parents were with them. • The next generation (Sophia and Lulu’s) is the one I spend nights lying awake worrying about. Because of the hard work of their parents and grandparents, this generation will be born into the great comforts of the upper middle class. Even as children they will own many hardcover books (an almost criminal luxury from the point of view of immigrant parents). They will have wealthy friends who get paid for B-pluses.They may or may not attend private schools, but in either case they will expect expensive, brand-name clothes. Finally and most problematically, they will feel that they have individual rights guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution and therefore be much more likely to disobey their parents and ignore career advice. In short, all factors point to this generation

Miss Manners’ mother always told her to travel either first or third class, but never second, when crossing. (Not crossing class lines, silly; crossing the Atlantic Ocean, in the days when that was done properly, with bouillon at eleven on the promenade deck and tea at five in the salon.) In first class, in those days, you had luxury; in third class, you had fun. This is the proper distribution of the world’s blessings. In second class, you had neither. Naturally, then, someone invented the one-class ship, where the advantages of second class could be enjoyed by all, which is probably why we have those overanxious things called airplanes for crossings these days. You

I was taught to prioritize what's "important"; food, water, children (Being the eldest among our siblings, I was taught to watch out for the younger ones). I was taught that the important stuff wasn't shiny; it involved logistics, practicals, survival. Only the necessary stuff to get by. Style, beauty, self-expression, affairs, superficiality — these are luxuries in my world. I could barely afford to eat lunch, much less buy clothes or get my hair styled in a salon. My family couldn't afford cable TV so I never watched MTV to learn the latest trends. So when I started high school, I had no regard for appearances. This is how I learned, the hard way, that maturity has no place with teenagers who could afford to have fun.

Day looked up and had to clutch the banister to keep from falling over. He saw him. Saw his soon-to-be husband. Standing there, larger than life. In a suit that hung from his broad shoulders the way every suit should fit a man. God looked down at him, his hair falling to the front. Day hadn’t seen it like that before. Luxurious and soft. Like he’d just come from a salon. It was tucked behind his ears, but thick, soft strands still fell forward as God smiled down at him. A smile most people didn’t get to see. He looked like he was just as relieved to see Day standing there. Genesis stood behind him with his hand on his shoulder the exact same way Jackson was supporting him. Day finally breathed when God began to descend the stairs. When he reached the bottom, Day saw God’s chest deflate like he’d been holding his breath. They stepped in to each other, needing the closeness, the reality of what they were about to do flooding their bodies with anticipation and nerves. God never looked into the room, didn’t glance around to see who was there. His vibrant green eyes stayed on him when he lifted Day’s hands and gently kissed his palm, pressing Day’s hand to his face. There were a few soft sighs from the room, but Day couldn’t look away. He ran his hand through God’s hair, feeling the silky strands ease through his fingers, not a tangle to be found. He looked amazing. “You’re

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Something is happening in African literature: The women are coming... Most striking of all is Sibilla, an illegitimate offshoot of the Gavuzzi family, who suffers from extreme hirsutism, every part of her body sprouting luxuriant hair (if one wanted to be unkind, one might think of Cousin Itt). Sibilla and her hair — weaving, dancing, whirling, whitening into old age — dominate the novel and give it its defining imagery, its infinitely variable leitmotif. Hair is everywhere: Trails of hair are left so that lovers can find each other, hair salons are opened and form the backdrop to crucial scenes, hair is shaven off the heads of women mourners. “What are you made of?” one character demands, and the answer is one that the novel itself might give: “Hair.

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Les salons—prestigious social gatherings of prominent, intellectually minded people—were rooted in Italy’s salones, smartly appointed rooms within Roman palazzi with suitably dazzling façades. Seventeenth and eighteenth-century France, however, deserves credit for building the cultural cachet of this pleasurable way to pass the day. In salons equally luxueux, as the French would say, Parisian men and women from the literary establishment, along with philosophers and luminaries from the worlds of art, music and politics, would frequently meet to discuss the latest news, exchange ideas and gossip, all at the invitation of refined, wealthy women known as salonnières. In their key role, hosts chose an eclectic mix of guests with care, and then ideally served as moderators, selecting topics that would generate conversation if not spirited debates. To date, though, even historians cannot agree as to what was, and what was not, considered appropriate to talk about. Yet, they do concur that women were the cornerstones of les salons, funneling fresh social and political ideas into a nation where men dominated public life, held bias against women and until 1944 denied women the right to vote. Among the distinguished seventeenth-century salonnières—with set parameters that she expected guests to follow—was French society hostess Catherine de Vivonne, the marquise de Rambouillet (1588–1665), known as Madame de Rambouillet. A century later, Marie Thérèse Rodet Geoffrin (1699–1777) would host twice weekly many of the most influential philosophes (avant-garde intellectuals) and encyclopédistes (writers) in her elegant Parisian townhouse on the now luxury-laden, boutique-lined rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. As a leading figure of the French Enlightenment—the movement that promoted liberty and equality, strongly influencing our own notions about human rights and the role of government—her growing importance earned her international recognition.