Platinum Blonde Quotes

I made myself platinum, but I was born a dirty blonde.

Got distracted by two gin martinis and a platinum blond shark who wanted me dead." "Not dead. Lightly mauled, maybe, but I would've stayed away from your face." "Didn't realize you were such a fan.

At a time when she was engaged to Stilton Cheesewright, I remember recording in the archives that she was tall and willowy with a terrific profile and luxuriant platinum blond-hair, the sort of girl who might, as far as looks were concerned, have been the star unit of the harem of one of the better-class sultans.

She was confronted by seven heads of platinum blonde hair and intense blue eyes. Hitler would be proud.

Her long platinum blond hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders, with a few black peekaboo strands. She wore a black minidress and combat boots.

the runway style. With her short hair freshly died platinum blonde she had to slay the scene in a black Crooks and Castle snapback, diamond stud earrings, gold collar necklace, red Crooks and Castle sweatshirt, Cartier gold men’s watch, black leather leggings, Saint Laurent suede peep-toe lace-up booties and a extra sickening red $7750 VBH Brera ostrich satchel bag.

All the heroes had crew cuts, platinum-blond wives and drove Corvettes. The media was devoted to this cult of innocence.

Pick me!” a platinum-blonde in fuck-me pumps calls from the crowd.

I just want you all to know,” quipped a platinum blond with obvious glee, “that sometimes being homosexual is a big pain in the ass.

That air of electric tension, of a great city on the edge of an abyss, is more noticeable than ever at the White Russian cabaret called, not inappropriately, "New York." You wouldn't know you were in China. An almond-eyed platinum-blonde has just finished wailing, with a Mott Street accent, "You're gonna lose your gal." ("Jane Brown's Body")

Julian’s not at the house in Bel Air, but there’s a note on the door saying that he might be at some house on King’s Road. Julian’s not at the house on King’s Road either, but some guy with braces and short platinum-blond hair and a bathing suit on lifting weights is in the backyard. He puts one of the weights down and lights a cigarette and asks me if I want a Quaalude. I ask him where Julian is. There’s a girl lying by the pool on a chaise longue, blond, drunk, and she says in a really tired voice, ‘Oh, Julian could be anywhere. Does he owe you money?’ The girl has brought a television outside and is watching some movie about cavemen. ‘No,’ I tell her. ‘Well, that’s good. He promised to pay for a gram of coke I got him.’ She shakes her head. ‘Nope. He never did.’ She shakes her head again, slowly, her voice thick, a bottle of gin, half-empty, by her side. The weightlifter with the braces on asks me if I want to buy a Temple of Doom bootleg cassette. I tell him no and then ask him to tell Julian that I stopped by. The weight-lifter nods his head like he doesn’t understand and the girl asks him if he got the backstage passes to the Missing Persons concert. He says, ‘Yeah, baby,’ and she jumps in the pool. Some caveman gets thrown off a cliff and I split.

A woman with super long platinum blonde hair, a fake tan, injected bubble gum pink lips, and a large boob job came in. Phoebe showed her where to set up in front of us and we all sat patiently. "Hello, I’m Tandy" I almost rolled my eyes at her name, given her appearance. She placed a case on the coffee table in front of us, opened it, and pulled out rubber penises. I almost shot my drink out of my nose, again. "I will be instructing you on proper blow job technique." "Oh my God, Phoebe." I shouted at her. "Yeah," Viola clapped her hands and reached out to be the first to get a rubber practice penis.

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.

The first thing I did was dye my hair back to a Barbie platinum. (I’m a natural blonde, if you don’t count hair color.)

Dave knocked on the door. “Iggy is in the bar,” he said. I drew my eyes back on and, as nonchalantly as I could manage, slipped down to the bar. “Hey! This is great,” he said, looking like Alfred E. Neuman and shaking my hand. He seemed as happy to meet me as I was him, as he introduced me to his girlfriend, Esther. In accordance with everybody else who’d met him, I found out that you either got Jim Osterberg, the straight-A Midwestern bookworm, or Iggy Pop, the drug-crazed, platinum-blond lunatic. The guy in the bar that night was Jim Osterberg.

From the first time I set eyes on Marilyn, I thought she was just wonderful. On the silver screen, her lovely skin and platinum hair were luminescent and fantastic. I loved the fantasy of it. In the fifties, when I grew up. Marilyn was an enormous star, but there was such a double standard. The fact that she was such a hot number meant that many middle-class women looked down on her as a slut. And since the publicity machine behind her sold her as a sex idol, she wasn’t valued as a comedic actor or given credit for her talent. I never felt that way about her, obviously. I felt that Marilyn was also playing a character, the proverbial dumb blonde with the little-girl voice and big-girl body, and that there was a lot of smarts behind the act. My character in Blondie was partly a visual homage to Marilyn, and partly a statement about the good old double standard.

The Oakland chapter’s “bondsman” is a handsome middle-aged woman with platinum-blond hair named Dorothy Connors. She has a pine-paneled office, drives a white Cadillac and treats the Angels gently, like wayward children. “These boys are the backbone of the bail-bond business,” she says. “Ordinary customers come and go, but just like clockwork, the Angels come down to my office each week to make their payments. They really pay the overhead.

The wind here is a glinting abrasive thing, a perpetual, face-shredding, eyeball-poking tendency in the fabric of spacetime, inhabited by vast platinum-blond arcs of fire that are centered on the low winter sun. Crystalline

Her hair was so fair that it was white, the kind of platinum-blonde tresses that should have belonged to a long-dead movie starlet, her lips were painted crimson, and she looked to be somewhere between twenty-five and fifty.

always focusing on the commonsense stuff. Don’t slap on a platinum wig and high heels just because you’re a short brunette. Don’t think opposite; think inconspicuous. Think about what attracts attention—like blondes and stilettos—and avoid it.

I wanted to be platinum blond. On our black-and-white television and at the theater where they screened technicolor movies, there was something about platinum hair that was so luminescent and exciting. In my time, Marilyn Monroe was the biggest platinum blond on the silver screen. She was so charismatic and the aura she cast was enormous. I identified with her strongly in ways I couldn’t easily articulate. As I grew up, the more I stood out physically in my family, the more I was drawn to people that I felt I related to in significant way. With Marilyn, I sensed a vulnerability and a particular kind of femaleness that I felt we shared. Marilyn struck me as someone who needed so much love. That was long before I discovered that Marilyn had been a foster child.

That’s when I realized it. I liked this girl. A lot. I liked her super-moist double chocolate chip cupcakes. I liked how kind and patient she was with the guests, the way her forehead crinkled when she was thinking about a problem. I liked her low, soft voice and that long ribbon of platinum-blond hair. I liked the way she looked at the world, as if it were an okay place, where good things were actually possible. 

How to describe the woman? Silky hair, velvety lips. No, it won’t do, I’m using fabrics, constructing a doll. How about coppery hair, or golden locks of hair, or platinum blonde? No, now I’m doing some kind of industrial metallurgy with precious metals; in addition to everything else, the woman sounds like a commodity. And what’s “locks of hair” supposed to mean? Lock, some kind of bondage? No, strike it out. Ruby lips, pearly white teeth, brilliant smile. No, now I’m making the woman out of precious stones, and out of clichés. Almond-shaped eyes, hazel-colored eyes, pear-shaped waist, apple-red cheeks, lips like the bud of a moist flower, peachy fuzz on her upper lip. Now I’m making up a woman out of fruits, plants. She strode like a gazelle. Her snaky waist coiled and uncoiled. Now I’m demeaning the woman, making her into an animal. On the other hand, you can call a woman a goddess. Aphrodite, Venus, or at least a demi-god, angelic beauty. But these terms were all invariably overused, clichés. In addition, if you call a woman Aphrodite, it might seem like an oblique way of saying that the woman is overweight.

Imagine you're sitting having dinner in a restaurant. At some point during the meal, your companion leans over and whispers that they've spotted Lady Gaga eating at the table opposite. Before having a look for yourself, you'll no doubt have some sense of how much you believe your friends theory. You'll take into account all of your prior knowledge: perhaps the quality of the establishment, the distance you are from Gaga's home in Malibu, your friend's eyesight. That sort of thing. If pushed, it's a belief that you could put a number on. A probability of sorts. As you turn to look at the woman, you'll automatically use each piece of evidence in front of you to update your belief in your friend's hypothesis Perhaps the platinum-blonde hair is consistent with what you would expect from Gaga, so your belief goes up. But the fact that she's sitting on her own with no bodyguards isn't, so your belief goes down. The point is, each new observations adds to your overall assessment. This is all Bayes' theorem does: offers a systematic way to update your belief in a hypothesis on the basis of the evidence. It accepts that you can't ever be completely certain about the theory you are considering, but allows you to make a best guess from the information available. So, once you realize the woman at the table opposite is wearing a dress made of meat -- a fashion choice that you're unlikely to chance up on in the non-Gaga population -- that might be enough to tip your belief over the threshold and lead you to conclude that it is indeed Lady Gaga in the restaurant. But Bayes' theorem isn't just an equation for the way humans already make decisions. It's much more important that that. To quote Sharon Bertsch McGrayne, author of The Theory That Would Not Die: 'Bayes runs counter to the deeply held conviction that modern science requires objectivity and precision. By providing a mechanism to measure your belief in something, Bayes allows you to draw sensible conclusions from sketchy observations, from messy, incomplete and approximate data -- even from ignorance.

Taking my drink, I moved around the bar to her. Her smile was a little crooked as I sat down. I guessed it had been a wet night for platinum blondes.

That evening I went over to Metro and found this long platinum-blond wig. I took it home and styled it, with curls and ringlets at the nape of the neck. The next day I brought it to Bette. She put it on, looked in the mirror, and in a loud voice said, 'It's the NUTS! I love it!' She wore it through the entire picture, and she never knew that it was an old wig of Joan's—one that Miss Crawford wore in an early M-G-M movie." Norma

Sounds fun,” Anna said. “Are we helping herd cows this afternoon?” “Yeah,” I said. “We’ll do Betty’s family today, and the Miller’s tomorrow.” “Okay,” the redhead agreed. “I can’t wait for some steaks.” “Aw.” Bailey frowned. “Hey now,” Anna smirked at her friend. “You eat meat now too, you can’t get mad at me.” “I know,” Bailey pouted. “But cows are just so cute.” “Eh.” Paige shrugged indifferently. “I like cows,” Rolly said. “But I’m not sure how cute they are.” “Have you ever looked at their eyelashes?” Bailey asked. “They’re soooo long.” “And that makes them cute?” I raised a brow at the blonde. “Of course,” she giggled. “I’ll take your word for it,” I chuckled. “Take her word for what?” Tara asked, and she came out onto the roof carrying a skillet and some meat for Winchester. “That cows are cute,” I said. “Oh, they totally are,” the platinum blonde said, and she took a seat and gave Winchester his breakfast. “See?” Bailey beamed. “Tara gets it.” “Yeah, but they’re tasty too,” the platinum blonde said with a shrug. “And just like that I lost her,” Bailey said with a snap of her fingers, and we all laughed.

Well, there’s good news and bad news,” I said, and I turned to Anna. “What’s the bad news?” the redhead asked warily. “No, good news first!” Paige said excitedly. “The good news is that the scouts are dead,” I said and then I turned back to the redhead. “The bad news is that I had to eliminate your target.” “What the fuck?” she scoffed. “What happened?” “He was taking over for the scout here,” I told her. “So I had to take him out.” “They sent him here to kidnap one of us, didn’t they?” Tara asked dryly. “Yes,” I said with a nod. “I hope you stabbed him in the dick,” the platinum blonde replied. “As a matter of fact, I did,” I laughed. “Wait, seriously?” Bailey asked with wide eyes.

I’m gonna stab somebody in the dick,” Tara said with a wicked grin, and I was slightly terrified. “Jesus,” Anna said, and she looked at the platinum blonde with wide eyes. “What?” Tara asked defensively. “Tav got to do it.” “That’s different,” Paige said, and she raised a brow at the blonde. “How is that different?” Tara scoffed. “Maybe because he has a dick,” Anna said. “Whatev,” Tara said with a shrug. “I’m doing it, and you bitches can’t stop me.” “Tara has total permission to stab someone in the dick if necessary,” I laughed.

Let’s see what they were fighting over,” Paige said with amusement as she walked over to the third guy and took the vial out of his hand. “What is it?” Tara asked, and she moved over to the brunette to look at the bottle. “Ketamine,” Paige said, and she gave me smirk. “What does that mean?” Tara asked, and she looked over to me. “What is it?” “It’s known on the street as special K,” I said. “Like the cereal?” the platinum blonde asked with a raised brow. “Yeah,” I chuckled. “Like the cereal.” “What does it do?” Tara asked. “It’s an anesthetic of sorts,” Paige explained. “They used it in Vietnam for surgeries.” “Why would somebody want that?” the platinum blonde asked with confusion. “If you boil it, it becomes a white powder,” I said. “You snort the powder, and it makes you hallucinate.” “They call it a K hole,” Paige said, and she shook her head. “Gross,” Tara said. “Also, how do you know that shit? I didn’t take you for a party girl.” “I read about it in Party Monster,” Paige chuckled. “In the 90s people used to use it at clubs.” “It’s like people have never heard of vodka,” Tara said with an eye roll.

What if we climb a tree?” Tara asked. “That could work,” I said. “But let’s look around a bit more. We may be on the wrong side.” “It could be the snow,” the platinum blonde said. “It’s kind of hard to see with all this white stuff in your face.” “That’s what she said,” I joked. “Oh, my God!” Tara exclaimed with a laugh. “That was good. You’re learning.” “I try,” I chuckled.

I don’t care what my group is called.” “What if we went with rainbow unicorns or some shit like that?” Paige asked. “Doesn’t matter to me,” Rolly said. “There’s no one left to tease me so why should I care?” “I dunno, I might have a few things to say,” I chuckled. “What, unicorns aren’t tough enough for you?” Anna teased. “I think they might be too tough for me,” I said with a grin. “I’ve got nothing on a unicorn. Those things are majestic and powerful.” “Sounds just like you,” Bailey said. “Yeah, and that’s not all you have in common with a unicorn,” Tara said. “Oh yeah?” I raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the platinum blonde. “I wouldn’t hesitate to ride either of you,” Tara said with a smirk. “Alright then,

So, when can we ride them?” Tara grinned at me. “Let’s give them a rest for today,” I laughed. “Alright,” Tara pouted. “What are their names?” Bailey asked. “We figured you could name them since I named Winchester,” Paige said with a smile. “How about Buttercup?” Tara smiled. “That’s the most cliché horse name ever,” Anna laughed at the platinum blonde.

I’m sorry,” I smiled at the platinum blonde. “You’re just cute is all.” “Yeah,” Anna nodded. “Like a five-year-old who believes in Santa Claus.” “I don’t believe in Santa Claus,” Tara sneered playfully. “But I believe in bitches. ‘Cause I’m looking right at one.

Get a color all your own,” he’d suggested, neither Kardashian black, nor platinum Playboy blond.

No, he says. Got distracted by two gin martinis and a platinum blond shark who wanted me dead. Not dead, I say. Lightly mauled, maybe, but I would’ve stayed away from your face. Didn’t realize you were a fan>, he writes.

Thus to this day, Europe’s elite discourse often depicts America not as proletarian, which at least to leftist Europeans has the connotation of authenticity, but rather as commodified, commercial, vulgar—values that exude inauthenticity, plasticity, and heteronomy. European elites’ image of America as “Las Vegas,” “Disneyland,” basically as “white trash”—or what the British call “chav”— has a distinguished pedigree: gaudy jewelry, expensive-but-tacky clothes, garish makeup, platinum blond hair, tattoos, vulgar demeanor, in short inauthentic and kitschy glitter best captured by the term “uncouth.” This disparaging image of America cultivated by European elites was also linked to how the young United States embodied modern capitalism hostile to an aristocratic order.

And you’ll see black women wearing these green and pink and purple and red and platinum-blonde wigs. They’re all more ridiculous than a slapstick comedy. It makes you wonder if the Negro has completely lost his sense of identity, lost touch with himself.

Got distracted by two gin martinis and a platinum blond shark who wanted me dead.

Diana’s gorgeous, with wide-set eyes, platinum-blond hair, and a sassy mouth. She’s a little shorter than I usually like, barely over five feet, five-two if we’re being generous. A pint-sized hottie with a big personality. Although it seems like a major part of that personality involves busting the balls of yours truly.

The elder couple were stunning in their elegance, floating forward as if carried on air. The elder man had tan skin and dark blond hair, lightly touched with grey, pulled into a single plait. The woman seemed otherworldly with her fair complexion and platinum tresses that fell in a silken sheet to the curve of her waist. Both had angular features that accentuated their cold, cunning eyes. I noted how they offered only a subtle dip of their chin as they approached.

All Hugh had to do now was convince the owner of the castle to let him share it. He’d gotten a glimpse of her as he rode in. Her hair was completely white. Not pale blond or bleached platinum, white. Her hazel eyes were sharp, and she looked at him like she saw a wolf at her door. He wasn’t a wolf. He was something much worse, but he needed her defendable castle and her delicious bread.

She radiated a long faded Hollywood glamour, the muted remains of which were found in her sparkly old-timey dresses and wildly colorful makeup fitting for a character from Pink Floyd’s The Wall or a Ralph Steadman drawing. From under a platinum-blond wig her whiskey-soaked rasp croaked spiritedly at me and Joel, affectionately scolding us for one thing or another.

JULY 22, 1971 This morning on Hunter Street, I passed a black woman at the bus stop. She was simply dressed in a green-and-white checked shirtwaist dress. It was a little too big and little bit too long, but not really sloppy. It had a little fabric-covered belt to match, too. But on top of her head was a huge, platinum blond wig. It was curled and flipped and teased and in general fixed to look as hideous as possible. It wasn’t even pulled down very far. It was just sitting there like it was a bird who had decided to light there and visit with her for a while. She had a very serious expression and she was looking down the street intently for the bus. The wig was looking, too, but I don’t think it was looking for the bus. It looked like it had had a hard night and would welcome an Alka Seltzer.

I am now transfixed by this vintage sex-siren, who must be seventy if she’s a day. She is a woman who looks as though she is starring in a movie of her own life, and loving every minute of it. She is dazzling. Her long, platinum-blonde hair is twisted into a sexily dishevelled chignon, she wears several strings of pearls and even more make-up than Roni. Her eyes are heavily lined in black, her foundation could support a small bungalow, and her lips are painted into a perfect red pout. But somehow, on this woman, the effect is less lady of the night and more old-school Hollywood glamour.

The voice was thick and had mileage on it. Her platinum-blond hair was pulled tight in a clasp engraved with the initials W.W. The woman’s eyes, lined in charcoal, had wrinkles fringing out from the corners. Her lips were scarlet, but not bloody. She was pretty once.

Commander Jacob Peterson awoke to the shrill sound of his emergency beeper. He opened his eyes, disoriented, trying to remember where he was. He surveyed the small room and saw a TV screen flickering static, saw blinds swaying from a humming air conditioner. He then looked over and was surprised to see a petite, platinum blonde woman, early twenties, sleeping beside him, nude, on top of the sheets. Their bodies were entangled, at peace.

Chikusho, I thought. This was the famous Imogen Kato, right here! She saw me and glanced down at the magazine I'd been looking at while waiting for my meeting with Chloe, open to the photo spread- of her. God, how embarrassing. I closed the magazine abruptly. It was definitely the same girl, although now her hair was platinum blond with dark roots instead of a mixture of auburn with honey and green apple-colored streaks. Beneath her plaid uniform skirt, she wore deep purple-and-blue-and-silver leggings that had prints of galloping gray unicorns, and over her blouse was a worn-out, oversize, cream-colored cardigan sweater with the belt tied to the side instead of center. Apparently, the uniform dress code was not that strict at this school.