Redhead And Brunette Quotes

Coach: "All right, Patch. let's say you're at a party. the room is full of girls of all shapes and sizes. You see blondes, brunettes, redheads, a few girl with black hair. Some are talkive, while other appear shy. You've one girl who fits your profile - attractive, intelligent and vulnerable. Dow do you let her know you're interested?" Patch: "Single her out. Talk to her." Coach: "Good. Now for the big question - how do you know if she's game or if she wants you to move on?" Patch: "I study her. I figure out what she's thinking and feeling. She's not gonig to come right out and tell me, which is why i have to pay attention. Does she turn her body toward mine? Does she hold me eyes, then look away? Does she bite her lip and play with her hair, the way Nora is doing right now?

So Nash and I went out and there were redheads and there were brunettes and there was even a super-hot chick that looked kinda like Pink but you think any of them did it for me?   No, Shaw not one because they weren’t fucking you and ever since you walked out on Sunday all I’ve been thinking of is you.   Now why is that?

Remember: blonde, brunette, and redhead are not personality types.

I chose a brunette, a redhead, a blond, and a kid with hair as black as print on paper.

We found a table. Nora said: "She's pretty." "If you like them like that." She grinned at me. "You got types?" "Only you, darling - lanky brunettes with wicked jaws." "And how about the red-head you wandered off with at Quinns' last night?" "That's silly," I said. "She just wanted to show me some French etchings.

Picture to yourself the most beautiful girl imaginable! She was so beautiful that there would be no point, in view of my meagre talent for storytelling, in even trying to put her beauty into words. That would far exceed my capabilities, so I'll refrain from mentioning whether she was a blonde or a brunette or a redhead, or whether her hair was long or short or curly or smooth as silk. I shall also refrain from the usual comparisons where her complexion was concerned, for instance milk, velvet, satin, peaches and cream, honey or ivory, Instead, I shall leave it entirely up to your imagination to fill in this blank with your own ideal of feminine beauty.

...there were redheads and there were brunettes and there was even a super-hot chick that looked kinda like Pink but you think any of them did it for me?  No, Shaw not one because they weren’t fucking you and ever since you walked out on Sunday all I’ve been thinking of is you.

I like the color of the Caribbean." I paused and absorbed the warmth of her smile before adding, "Dogs, not cats. Boxers, not briefs. Redheads over brunettes..." I glanced sideways at her, and she met my gaze. "I have a penchant for girls in velvet jackets... and I think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen." She choked in surprise, sputtered, and shook her head. "You see? This is what I mean." "What?" "Nobody talks like that. I barely know you." I was genuinely confused. Didn't girls like to hear this stuff? Besides, it was, conveniently enough, the truth. "Well, I talk like this. And you should be used to people telling you you're beautiful." "Well, I'm not," she said, and she sounded like she was getting irritated with me again. The feeling was mutual. I leaned against the wall and pulled up one knee. "Okay. I take it back. You are completely average. Dull, dull, dull. Unremarkable in every way.

How's your grandpa?" "Still worried that your blackness will infect me." "That's the plan. First you, then all the other blondes, and then on to brunettes and redheads. Once we have the womenfolk, all the babies will come out black, too. We all voted on the plan at the last Black Conspirators meeting.

The walls, where there was room, were well decorated with calendars and posters showing bright, improbable girls with pumped-up breasts and no hips - blondes, brunettes and redheads, but always with this bust development, so that a visitor of another species might judge from the preoccupation of artist and audience that the seat of procreation lay in the mammaries. Alice Chicoy...who worked among the shining girls, was wide-hipped and sag-chested and she walked well back on her heels...She was not in the least jealous of the calendar girls and the Coca-Cola girls. She had never seen anyone like them, and she didn't think anyone ever had.

Other mysteries have been untangled. Redheads are known to feel pain especially acutely. This confused researchers until someone realized that the same genetic mutation that causes red hair also increases sensitivity to pain. One study found that redheaded patients require about 20 percent more general anesthesia than brunettes.

But I did. I knew her. I’d seen her with Deirdre, which should have marked her for death, but how could any lover of art mark a woman like this for death? She was beautiful. She was gothic. She was a muse in the flesh. Titian would have switched from redheads to brunettes for her. Aela O’Neill. Walking salvation and the promise of hell. I should ignore her, should send her packing, but instead, I rumbled, “Hello, Aela,” and took my first steps, without even a blink, into the abyss.

Once there was and once there was not a devout, God-fearing man who lived his entire life according to stoic principles. He died on his fortieth birthday and woke up floating in nothing. Now, mind you, floating in nothing was comforting, light-less, airless, like a mother’s womb. This man was grateful. But then he decided he would love to have sturdy ground beneath his feet, so he would feel more solid himself. Lo and behold, he was standing on earth. He knew it to be earth, for he knew the feel of it. Yet he wanted to see. I desire light, he thought, and light appeared. I want sunlight, not any light, and at night it shall be moonlight. His desires were granted. Let there be grass. I love the feel of grass beneath my feet. And so it was. I no longer wish to be naked. Only robes of the finest silk must touch my skin. And shelter, I need a grand palace whose entrance has double-sided stairs, and the floors must be marble and the carpets Persian. And food, the finest of food. His breakfast was English; his midmorning snack French. His lunch was Chinese. His afternoon tea was Indian. His supper was Italian, and his late-night snack was Lebanese. Libation? He had the best of wines, of course, and champagne. And company, the finest of company. He demanded poets and writers, thinkers and philosophers, hakawatis and musicians, fools and clowns. And then he desired sex. He asked for light-skinned women and dark-skinned, blondes and brunettes, Chinese, South Asian, African, Scandinavian. He asked for them singly and two at a time, and in the evenings he had orgies. He asked for younger girls, after which he asked for older women, just to try. The he tried men, muscular men, skinny men. Then boys. Then boys and girls together. Then he got bored. He tried sex with food. Boys with Chinese, girls with Indian. Redheads with ice cream. Then he tried sex with company. He fucked the poet. Everybody fucked the poet. But again he got bored. The days were endless. Coming up with new ideas became tiring and tiresome. Every desire he could ever think of was satisfied. He had had enough. He walked out of his house, looked up at the glorious sky, and said, “Dear God. I thank You for Your abundance, but I cannot stand it here anymore. I would rather be anywhere else. I would rather be in hell.” And the booming voice from above replied, “And where do you think you are?

only brunettes and redheads are hot lol

The relationship of a man with his lover should be something natural, just like the male orgasm.The truth is that if man has the full attention of the quality time he has ando f the quality woman in front of him, even if she is black, Japanese or white, fat or thin, with short or long hair, or even bald, blonde, brunette or redhead; an orgasm will always as transparente as the color of the most beautiful walls of love.

They included Robin Wilson, the current Miss Sweet Valley High; Helen Bradley, a stunning redhead; Jean West, a pixie brunette; and Maria Santelli, who could do back flips that took everyone’s breath away.

Sergeant Joe Washington watched from the southern end of the Victoria Bridge as arm in arm they came, a ribbon of colour braided between the metal arches of the bridge that spanned the oily river. Loose-limbed girls with bobbed hair or tight curls pasted to their foreheads, giggling and nudging each other, arms linked. Bobby-soxers and dames, broads and beauties. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Long evening dresses shimmered under the weak lights of the evening brownout, short skirts twirled. Every now and then a slim figure was in uniform, the drab green and khaki of the AWAS relieved by a sprig of mimosa or a pink-throated orchid pinned to the collar.

Her mane was red-herring tinted, but that would be misleading as it was mostly brunette.

So Nina isn’t driving you crazy?” the redhead asks me. “What do you mean?” I say carefully. I don’t want to gossip with these harpies, but at the same time, I’m curious about Nina. “Nina is just a bit… high strung,” the brunette says. “Nina is nuts,” the redhead pipes up. “Literally.” I suck in a breath. “What?” The brunette elbows the redhead hard enough to make her gasp. “Nothing. She’s just joking around.

I’m a pushover for blondes. And brunettes. And redheads. I’ve even fantasised about that bald woman in the first Star Trek movie. ‘I

Jessica, Willow, and Abby burst through the door in a loud explosion of giggles and then stop at the counter to get their Diet Cokes before heading to the back to join us. I don’t really like these girls—I have never liked these girls—and yet somehow they are on the periphery of our friend group. Okay, fine, we are actually on the periphery of their friend group, since as a trio, Jessica, Willow, and Abby are by far the most popular girls in the junior class. I have no idea how they’ve managed to swing it—popularity is an undefinable thing at Mapleview, which as best I can tell involves a whole lot of unearned, effortless confidence and the ability to get other people to look at you for no reason at all. Jessica is a blonde, Willow is a brunette, and Abby is a redhead, just like every teen friend group on television (except, in this case, sans a sassy black sidekick). Boom! Best friends for life. I assume there’s more to their friendship than hair-color optics and an affinity for thong underwear. That taken individually there is the distant possibility they might actually be interesting people. I doubt I will ever know, though, since they travel as a pack

In the midst of getting my understanding of racial categories shaken up, I started thinking, What if, instead of categorizing people by skin color, hair color was the guiding physical attribute? To compare it to the way race works in America, I loaded up categories with narrowly defined assumptions. I imagined a world where redheads were perceived as smart and powerful, black-haired people as artistic, brunettes as able to work long grueling hours, and blonds as lazy. Also, to hold the analogy constant, I imagined entire families sporting a single hair color.

She knew why they bid on her. She was a rarity, an exotic natural redheaded delight in a sea of blondes and brunettes, and she was attractive. She brought in good fucking money at every bid, which was exactly why the organizers kept putting her up on the stage and the idiots kept risking their lives. They all thought they’d be the ones to get away with it, blinded by their power and arrogance.

They were pretty, too, a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead, and they had nice . . . smiles.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket, and not two seconds later, a blonde, brunette, and redhead—like a bad joke—head down the stairs toward my seat.

I heard you were wrong earlier.” Anna raised an eyebrow at the brunette. “Popcorn kettle black.” “What the fuck?” Tara laughed. “Popcorn kettle black,” Anna said very seriously. Everyone burst into belly laughs, except for Anna. “What?” she asked very sternly. “It’s the pot calling the kettle black,” I said once I had regained enough breath to speak properly again. “What the hell does popcorn kettle black mean?” Paige giggled. “It’s a saying,” Anna said defensively. “My mom used to say it when someone was being a hypocrite.” “You’re right about the meaning,” Rolly said with a smile at the redhead. “But they’re right, it’s the pot calling the kettle black.” “My life is a lie,” Anna said seriously,

My hesitation, as an adult, to find myself within the heroine universe has been rooted in a suspicion that that identification would never be truly reciprocal: I would see myself in Jo March, but the world’s Jo Marches would rarely, if ever, be expected or able to see themselves in me. Over lazy dinner conversations, my white friends would be able to fantasy-cast their own biopic from an endless cereal aisle of nearly identical celebrities, hundreds of manifestations of blonde or brunette or redhead selfhood represented with Pantone subtlety and variation—if, of course, hardly any variation in ability or body type—while I would have no one to choose from except about three actresses who’d probably all had minor roles in some movie five years back. In most contemporary novels, women who looked like me would pop up only occasionally, as a piece of set decoration on the subway or at a dinner party, as a character whose Asian ethnicity would be noted by the white author as diligently as the whiteness of his or her unmarked protagonist was not. If women were not allowed to be seen as emblematic of the human condition, I wouldn’t even get to be seen as emblematic of the female condition.

A crimson mane of fire cascaded down the back of a slight woman with sensuous curves. She faced a man standing too close to her, stroking her arm. Nick swallowed a growl. Where was this coming from?
 It’d been forever since he’d felt the stirrings of desire, and, besides, he’d always preferred tall brunettes like Helena. He hadn’t even seen the redhead’s face. None of that mattered as he moved toward the couple. But before he’d taken three steps, the woman darted down the darkened hallway. A square of light filled the corridor as she thrust open the exit. He blinked at the blaze of sunlight on her hair before she disappeared and the door closed behind her. 


I’m not a family man, and I don’t like brunettes or redheads anymore. I’ll find some blonde bitch to keep me company