Pixie Cut Quotes

Katie had soft features and a wide, honest smile that gave her a certain kind of understated grace. She’d worn her dark chocolate hair in a cute pixie cut when I’d met her, but she’d recently started to grow it out, and now fought endlessly with several unruly strands of hair that fell down over her eyes whenever she made the slightest move. She was charming and teasing and sweet and funny, and in the three months since her first visit even the most cynical of the hotel’s regular customers had fallen a little bit in love with her.

Her only worry sometimes was that she didn’t look different enough, that people mistook her for part of a crowd. She’d see a girl in patterned Doc Martens or with a dyed red pixie cut and wish she had the balls.

Malia was a chocolate girl. Sexy, succulent chocolate that I could already imagine soothing my sweet tooth with. Charlotte wore her hair cut in a short pixie style,

Doesn’t this feel wrong to you?” I cut in. “Lying to everyone? Acting like we’re this happy couple?

Headlining also meant a higher caliber of groupie—as in, they had enough self-respect to hide their track marks and cutting scars on the insides of their thighs, like ladies. These bitches were bold, too. Entitled even. Opening act groupies were bottom-feeders. Skittish. Easily scared off by a ninety-five-pound nineteen-year-old with a platinum-blonde pixie haircut and one hell of a stink eye. Headliner groupies, on the other hand, were scrappers. They were working on their retirement plans, goddamn it, and they weren’t going to let a little thing like me (or a condom) get between them and eighteen years of rock star–sized child-support checks.

Rapunzel would have saved herself a whole lot of grief if she’d tied one end of her plait to the bed and abseiled out of that window down her own sodding hair, then given herself an adorable pixie cut at the bottom, punched the witch in the tits, told her parents to get to fuck for selling her for a CABBAGE, and gone off and kicked some arse in the world.

You go back to your hairdresser and ask her if she thinks you’d look good with a pixie cut. She says you’d look great. You trust her. You go home, newly shorn, and you aren’t quite sure what to make of yourself. But then Marie sees it and tells you that you look like a movie star, and when you look at yourself in the mirror again, you sort of see what she means. Six months later, you decide to take up the piano. And just by walking into a music store, you set a whole second life in motion.

Can I ask you something very personal while you try things on?” “Yes, of course, what do you want to know?” “…well, it’s just that… I don’t want to offend you,” she said uncertainly. “Oh come on, Akane, out with it!” Mitsuko prompted her, “I want to know the answer too!” “Very well,” agreed the little auburn pixie and cut to the chase: “Where are your wings?” The question was so unexpected that I burst out laughing. “I had to part with them when I came down to Earth. “It’s something every angel has to deal with if they’re planning to spend any length of time down here.” “And what’s your life like, up there?” Akane asked. “In the Kingdom of Heaven, we live as beings of pure light.” “Up there, there’s no such thing as fear, pain, hot or cold. We don’t know hunger, suffering, ageing or death. We have no need of food and we don’t sleep. We are the messengers of God and we watch over the lives of mortals. We come to Earth often, but only as spirits, and once we’ve completed our task down here, we always go back to the White Woods.

5-4-10 Tuesday 8:00 A.M. Made a large batch of chili and spaghetti to freeze yesterday. And some walnut fudge! Relieved the electricity is still on. It’s another beautiful sunny day with fluffy white clouds drifting by. The last cloud bank looked like a dog with nursing pups. I open the window and let in some fresh air filled with the scent of apple and plum blossoms and flowering lilacs. Feels like it’s close to 70 degrees. There’s a boy on a skate board being pulled along by his St. Bernard, who keeps turning around to see if his young friend is still on board. I’m thinking of a scene still vividly displayed in my memory. I was nine years old. I cut through the country club on my way home from school and followed a narrow stream, sucking on a jawbreaker from Ben Franklins, and I had some cherry and strawberry pixie straws, and banana and vanilla taffy inside my coat pocket. The temperature was in the fifties so it almost felt like spring. There were still large patches of snow on the fairways in the shadows and the ground was soggy from the melt off. Enthralled with the multi-layers of ice, thin sheets and tiny ice sickles gleaming under the afternoon sun, dripping, streaming into the pristine water below, running over the ribbons of green grass, forming miniature rapids and gently flowing rippling waves and all the reflections of a crystal cathedral, merging with the hidden world of a child. Seemingly endless natural sculptures. Then the hollow percussion sounds of the ice thudding, crackling under my feet, breaking off little ice flows carried away into a snow-covered cavern and out the other side of the tunnel. And I followed it all the way to bridge under Maple Road as if I didn't have a care in the world.

Cora snorts. "Whatever, dude, the whole point is that you don't have to make an effort here. You think any of us work here because we've got a real passion for art supplies?" Kristy practically jumps over the counter. For such a happy little pixie, she's ready to sacrifice herself in a heartbeat if the cause is worthy. She's Joan of Arc with a really bouncy ponytail. "I like--" "Kristy has a passion for the lint you scrape off the laundry screen." Cora cuts in. "Kristy doesn't count." "I was just joking about that," Kristy says, after a few seconds of stricken silence. "It's nice that its fluffy. It's my second favourite part about doing laundry.

The first day I stepped into Dr. Hollyfield’s office he’d told me about a little thing called the phone test. If a certain person calls you and you just can’t bear to pick up and talk to them, then they’re probably toxic and you should cut them from your life. If it’s a person you can’t cut from your life, then you need to find a new approach to dealing with them.

Pixie was still looking a little shell-shocked when they walked over to the desk. “This is Pixie, our studio manager. She’ll take your details when you’re ready.” “Hey, Pixie, pleased to meet you.” Trent had never seen Pixie so inanimate. She didn’t move to take the hand Dred had offered. “Pix?” Trent smirked as she quickly collected herself with a shake of her head, reaching her hand out. “Sorry. Miles away. Welcome to Second Circle.” “Nice tattoo you got there, Pixie. What are those?” “Flowers,” she mumbled. What the hell was up with Pixie? They’d had famous people in the studio before. Dred laughed. “I can see that. I was curious what kind.” The phone rang and Pixie jumped all over it, effectively cutting Dred off. “Sorry,” Trent apologized. “Fortunately, we’re generally pretty busy here. Want to take a seat and we can figure out what you’re looking for?” Trent started to walk to one of the beds toward the back of the studio. “We have a setup in the room back here if you want a bit more privacy.” Realizing Dred was no longer with him, he turned to see him still staring at Pixie’s back. “Hey dude,” he whispered, “we charge extra for checking out the staff’s asses.” “What? Oh … right, yeah. How much? I’d definitely pay extra for a closer view.

P.S.” Kimmie continues, nodding toward my sculptor of Adam’s lips, the assignment was to sculpt something exotic, not erotic. Are you sure you weren’t so busy wishing me dead that you just didn’t hear right? Plus, if it was eroticism you were going for, how come there’s no tongue wagging out of his mouth?” “And what’s exotic about your piece?” “Seriously, it doesn’t get more exotic than leopard, particularly if that leopard is in the form of a swanky pair of kitten heels . . . but I thought I’d start out small.” “Right,” I say, looking at her oblong ball of clay with what appears to be four legs, a golf-ball-sized head, and a long, skinny tail attached. “And, from the looks of your sculpture,” she continues, adjusting the lace bandana in her pixie-cut dark hair, “I presume your hankering for a Ben Burger right about now. The question is, will that burger come with a pickle on the side or between the buns?” “You’re so sick,” I say, failing to mention that my sculptor isn’t of Ben’s mouth at all. “Seriously? You’re the one who’s wishing me dead whilst fantasizing about your boyfriend’s mouth. Tell me that doesn’t rank high up on the sik-o-meter.” “I have to go,” I say, throwing a plastic tarp over my work board. “Should I be worried?” “About what?” “Acting manic and chanting about death?” “I didn’t chant.” “Are you kidding? For a second there I thought you were singing the jingle to a commercial for roach killer: You deserve to die! You deserve to die! You deserve to die!

It’s so weird that it’s Christmas Eve,” I said, clinking my glass to his. It was the first time I’d spent the occasion apart from my parents. “I know,” he said. “I was just thinking that.” We both dug into our steaks. I wished I’d made myself two. The meat was tender and flavorful, and perfectly medium-rare. I felt like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby, when she barely seared a steak in the middle of the afternoon and devoured it like a wolf. Except I didn’t have a pixie cut. And I wasn’t harboring Satan’s spawn. “Hey,” I began, looking into his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been so…so pathetic since, like, the day we got married.” He smiled and took a swig of Dr Pepper. “You haven’t been pathetic,” he said. He was a terrible liar. “I haven’t?” I asked, incredulous, savoring the scrumptious red meat. “No,” he answered, taking another bite of steak and looking me squarely in the eye. “You haven’t.” I was feeling argumentative. “Have you forgotten about my inner ear disturbance, which caused me to vomit all across Australia?” He paused, then countered, “Have you forgotten about the car I rented us?” I laughed, then struck back. “Have you forgotten about the poisonous lobster I ordered us?” Then he pulled out all the stops. “Have you forgotten all the money we lost?” I refused to be thwarted. “Have you forgotten that I found out I was pregnant after we got back from our honeymoon and I called my parents to tell them and I didn’t get a chance because my mom left my dad and I went on to have a nervous breakdown and had morning sickness for six weeks and now my jeans don’t fit?” I was the clear winner here. “Have you forgotten that I got you pregnant?” he said, grinning. I smiled and took the last bite of my steak. Marlboro Man looked down at my plate. “Want some of mine?” he asked. He’d only eaten half of his. “Sure,” I said, ravenously and unabashedly sticking my fork into a big chuck of his rib eye. I was so grateful for so many things: Marlboro Man, his outward displays of love, the new life we shared together, the child growing inside my body. But at that moment, at that meal, I was so grateful to be a carnivore again.

The moment Jace Calder saw his sister's face, he feared the worst. His heart sank. Emily, his troubled little sister, had been doing so well since she'd gotten the job at the Sarah Hamilton Foundation in Big Timber, Montana. "What's wrong?" he asked as he removed his Stetson, pulled up a chair at the Big Timber Java coffee shop and sat down across from her. Tossing his hat on the seat of an adjacent chair, he braced himself for bad news. Emily blinked her big blue eyes. Even though she was closing in on twenty-five, he often caught glimpses of the girl she'd been. Her pixie cut, once a dark brown like his own hair, was dyed black. From thirteen on, she'd been piercing anything she could. At sixteen she'd begun getting tattoos and drinking. It wasn't until she'd turned seventeen that she'd run away, taken up with a thirty-year-old biker drug-dealer thief and ended up in jail for the first time. But while Emily still had the tattoos and the piercings, she'd changed after the birth of her daughter, and after snagging this job with Bo Hamilton. "What's wrong is Bo," his sister said. Bo had insisted her employees at the foundation call her by her first name. "Pretty cool for a boss, huh?" his sister had said at the time. He'd been surprised. That didn't sound like the woman he knew. But who knew what was in Bo's head lately. Four months ago her mother, Sarah, who everyone believed dead the past twenty-two years, had suddenly shown up out of nowhere. According to what he'd read in the papers, Sarah had no memory of the past twenty-two years. He'd been worried it would hurt the foundation named for her. Not to mention what a shock it must have been for Bo. Emily leaned toward him and whispered, "Bo's… She's gone.

She had white-blond hair cut pixie-short, and a black rose tattoo on the nape of her neck. From behind I could see she had one of those dainty cartoon frames: curvy hips, tiny waist, and mysteriously, no shoulders. I could probably bench-press her.

I promised Coop two things before he died,” I said. “One, I’d get his cut of the score to his wife. Two, I’d send Stanwyck to hell where he belongs. I’m keeping those promises.” “The latter,” Caitlin said dryly, running a sharp red fingernail down her menu as she read it over, “can be arranged, with pleasure.” “I’m in,” Pixie said. “Let’s kill him.” The table fell quiet.

Don’t worry about that; it’s just your generic HR stuff. What time is it now?” Lisa fumbled with her Cartier watch. “Perfect timing; we’re going to lunch. But first, let me show you to your office.” Lisa slid from behind her desk. As usual, she looked spectacular: her navy pinstriped suit seemed to have been made for her miniature body (and it probably had been), her four-inch Louboutin stilettos elongated her slender legs, and her pixie cut emphasized the perfect features of her face. She looked like a corporate version of Winona Ryder.

Cinderella needed to kick off that other glass slipper and go back into that ball. Rapunzel needed to give herself a cute, pixie cut and knock down that door. Snow White needed to wash her fruit.

Brace yourself,” she said to Will. “Trouble and chaos are headed our direction.” “More kids?” “No,” she said. “Senior citizens.” They were soon joined by two women from Cordelia’s book club. Sylvie Sutton, his landlord, sported a sassy pixie cut and elf ears while her best friend Frannie Nelson preened in a magenta wig.

In the end, Penny and Leonard decided to put the incident behind them and go through with their Vegas nuptials, but there’s one major reason Cuoco says she’ll never forget the episode: her wig. By that point, Cuoco’s pixie cut had started to grow out, but in four months’ time when season nine would begin filming, she knew it would be a lot longer, and therefore wouldn’t match how it looked in the finale. Kaley Cuoco: I said to the producers, “Please tell me you’re not going to write a ‘To Be Continued…’ episode for the season eight finale.” And sure enough, they said, “We are.” I was so angry I had brought it up because that meant we had to get a fucking wig, and I was livid! [Laughs] I didn’t want to wear a wig. And bless my hairdresser Faye Woods’s heart, because she knows how much I hate wigs, but the wig that was made was exceptional. Still, I was so hateful toward this wig and everyone knew it. I was just being bratty. But I had to wear that wig in the season nine premiere. Then in the next episode we cheated a bit and it was back in a little bun so you couldn’t see the length. Then slowly over the next few episodes we started to let it down. Oh, and I still have that fucking wig. Faye gave it to me! It’s a joke now, just to sit there and remind me not to make bad choices with hair again. [Laughs] There were very few moments of anger for me on Big Bang, but that wig, to this day, creams my corn, as Penny would say. I hated it! I was so mad!

It was what Father used to call a “desire path” when we went down to the edge of the swamp to see the pixies who nested there; a path that wasn’t made because someone decided to put a path there, but because it was such an easy way to go toward something desirable that people and animals walked that way over and over again, until their feet pounded the earth down and made it harder for things to grow there. The force of their wanting cut channels in the world.

I tracked down a vegan baker and had this cake special ordered for tonight. It’s a vanilla cake made with almond milk and maple syrup, glazed with cocoa icing. The damn thing smells delicious, yet my mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert. That’s probably because of the message. Or, I should say, question iced on top of the cake. Walking up to the kitchen, I see her shaking her booty as she sings to the loud music blasting through the apartment. In her hand, she has a knife and is cutting up a banana. On the stove, I can see a small pot of melted dark chocolate and what looks like toasted and chopped walnuts on a plate. “Hey, babe! You’re home too early.” She gives me a fake pout. “I wanted to surprise you.” Setting my chin on her shoulder, I place my hands on her hips and watch as she starts cutting up another banana. “Surprise me with what, Pixie?” “Something sweet for us to eat while we watch the movie tonight.” Kissing the side of her neck, I murmur into her skin, “I’ve got your sweet covered.” She looks at the box with curious eyes. “Oh? And what do you have there, Trevor Blake?” Lifting the lid, I push the now visible cake with its question closer to her, and she gasps. Her hands start to tremble, and I watch the hand holding the knife with a wary eye. Perhaps I should have asked her to put that down first. I watch her face as her eyes tear up at the question in red icing. Will You Marry Me? The ring is the dot at the bottom of the question mark, shiny and blinking at her. Standing here, I wait for an answer. And I wait more. Thing is, it’s too quiet. There are silent tears running down her face, but she’s not said a single word. Fuck. What if she isn’t ready for this? I open my mouth to try to fix this, but suddenly my little sprite is squealing loudly, jumping up and down. I should be fucking thrilled that she’s happy, but all I can see is that knife bouncing up and down with her little body. She’s talking so fast I can barely understand what she’s saying. “Oh-my-gosh-Trevor-are-you-serious-right-now!” “Babe, happy as hell that you’re excited, but can you do me a favor really quick?” Paisley stops jumping up and down and nods her head repeatedly like a bobble head doll. I have to stop myself from laughing at her. She smiles brightly at me. “If you wanna know my answer, it’s yes!” “Well, that, too. But, Pixie, can you please put down the knife? Would really fucking hate it if one of us got accidentally stabbed on the night that I’m asking you to become my wife.

pixie cut

Like every other resident of Avening, Ana had no idea how old Autumn was. It was the stuff of legend. She didn't look old, and she didn't look young: she was suspended somewhere between the two. Autumn claimed that she was mostly a Celt, but for a Dutch grandfather and a Native American grandmother, a combination that gave her somewhat exotic looks. Her blue-black hair was cut in a pixie style, her eyes were green, and her cheekbones were high and defined. Today, she wore a black turtleneck and straight-legged pants, Audrey Hepburn-style.

Quinn’s father entered the room, placed a supportive hand on her shoulder. At six foot four, he towered over her five-foot-eight frame. In his early sixties and with alabaster hair, he still looked as fit as she remembered him being when she was a child. A devout vegetarian with a workout regimen that included jogging five miles a day, it wasn’t hard to see why his body had held up so well. Or why he was the perfect match for her mother, a woman with a cocoa-colored pixie cut and the looks of a modern-day Grace Kelly. “I’m surprised Marcus isn’t here to see you off,” her father said.