Updo Quotes

She was around fifty, with dark blond hair that had been twisted, teased, and probably threatened into a complicated updo.

At this point, a faerie woman came twirling through. She had leaves in her updo and was swathed in ribbons and ivy and not much else. She tripped on a trailing line of ivy and Alec caught her. “Good reflexes!” she said brightly. “Also great arms. Would you be interested in a night of tumultuous forbidden passion, with an option to extend to seven years?” “Um, I am gay,” Alec said. He was not used to saying that casually, to any random person. It was strange to say it, and feel both relief and a shadow of his old fear, twined together. Of course, the declaration might not mean much to faeries. The faerie woman accepted it with a shrug, then looked over at Raphael and lit up. Something about the leather jacket or the scowl seemed to appeal to her strongly. “How about you, Vampire Without a Cause?” “I’m not gay,” said Raphael. “I’m not straight. I’m not interested.” “Your sexuality is ‘not interested’?” Alec asked curiously. Raphael said, “That’s right.” The faerie thought for a moment, then ventured, “I can also assume the appearance of a tree!” “I didn’t say, ‘not interested unless you’re a tree.’ ” “Wait,” said the faerie suddenly. “I recognize you. You’re Raphael Santiago! I’ve heard of you.” Raphael made a gesture of dismissal. “Have you heard I like it when people go away?” “You were one of the heroes in the Downworlder victory over Valentine.” “He was one of the heroes of the Downworlder and Shadowhunter alliance, which led to the victory,” Alec said. Raphael stopped looking annoyed and began to look nastily amused. “Oh, did the Shadowhunters help a little?” he asked. “You were there!” said Alec. “Can I have your autograph, Raphael?” asked the faerie lady. She produced a large, shiny green leaf and a quill. Raphael wrote LEAVE ME ALONE on the leaf. “I’ll cherish it,” said the faerie. She ran away, clutching the leaf to her bosom. “Don’t,” Raphael yelled after her.

You realize I can never sleep under this blanket with this thread as it is. The thought of it would plague me all night.' 'Were you going to?' he asks, looking over his shoulder at me. 'Well, I'm not going to now.' 'Suggesting you were going to at some point?' 'Suggesting no matter where I sleep in the future, it will not be under this blanket.' 'I was not aware our friendship included sleepovers,' he says. 'Will we be doing each other's hair as well?' 'Yes. I long to see you in an up-do.

Just as there’s usually a space or interval between people passing on the street, even if it sometimes seems very small, a space also exists between thoughts. In your meditation, see if you can perceive this gap between thoughts. What is it, and does it belong to the realm of time? If it does not, then it’s unborn and undying, beyond all conditioning, which is a psychological carry-over from the past to the present. Whatever thoughts or internal conflicts come up—do nothing. Do not try to force them to cease or change. And don’t “do nothing” to still the mind, quiet fears, or resolve conflicts—all of this is doing something. It only leads to more struggling and prevents you from seeing the actual nature of thought and internal conflict. Genuine attention has no motive. This observation or listening doesn’t involve effort. Effort merely distracts you from what’s taking place in the instant. A kind of concentration exists that’s not forced. We’ve all experienced listening or paying attention to something we truly enjoyed. At that moment, was effort required for concentration to take place?

The list of correlations to that night is as long as the Jersey coast. And so is the list of reasons I shouldn't be looking forward to seeing him at school. But I can't help it. He's already texted me three times this morning: Can I pick you up for school? and Do u want 2 have breakfast? and R u getting my texts? My thumbs want to answer "yes" to all of the above, but my dignity demands that I don't answer at all. He called my his student. He stood there alone with me on the beach and told me he thinks of me as a pupil. That our relationship is platonic. And everyone knows what platonic means-rejected. Well, I might be his student, but I'm about to school, him on a few things. The first lesson of the day is Silent Treatment 101. So when I see him in the hall, I give him a polite nod and brush right by him. The zap from the slight contact never quite fades, which mean he's following me. I make it to my locker before his hand is on my arm. "Emma." The way he whispers my name sends goose bumps all the way to my baby toes. But I'm still in control. I nod to him, dial the combination to my locker, then open it in his face. He moves back before contact. Stepping around me, he leans his hand against the locker door and turns me around to face him. "That's not very nice." I raise my best you-started-this brow. He sighs. "I guess that means you didn't miss me." There are so many things I could pop off right now. Things like, "But at least I had Toraf to keep my company" or "You were gone?" Or "Don't feel bad, I didn't miss my calculus teacher either." But the goal is to say nothing. So I turn around. I transfer books and papers between my locker and backpack. As I stab a pencil into my updo, his breath pushes against my earlobe when he chuckles. "So your phone's not broken; you just didn't respond to my texts." Since rolling my eyes doesn't make a sound, it's still within the boundaries of Silent Treatment 101. So I do this while I shut my locker. As I push past him, he grabs my arm. And I figure if stomping on his toe doesn't make a sound... "My grandmother's dying," he blurts. Commence with the catching-Emma-off-guard crap. How can I continue Silent Treatment 101 after that? He never mentioned his grandmother before, but then again, I never mentioned mine either. "I'm sorry, Galen." I put my hand on his, give it a gentle squeeze. He laughs. Complete jackass. "Conveniently, she lives in a condo in Destin and her dying request is to meet you. Rachel called your mom. We're flying out Saturday afternoon, coming back Sunday night. I already called Dr. Milligan." "Un-freaking-believable.

With her make-up-free complexion and nondescript brown hair gathered in a scrappy up-do, she looks like someone for whom there are more important things than being thought pretty. She might be an academic, or an assistant in the better sort of a bookshop. But there's something about her—a stillness, a fixity of gaze—that tells another story.

In the sketch, I was sitting on the garden wall, my face in profile as I stared into the distance. My eyes were unfocused. A cigarette burned, forgotten, between my fingers. Raf drew me as I was, with round curves, folds in my stomach, and chubby thighs—but through his eyes I was beautiful. Because those features were just small parts of the picture. My face, which undoubtedly was blotchy from crying that night, was clear and angled. Even my messy bun was more of a purposeful updo, with soft tendrils that framed my face. The shirt that I'd been wearing that I'd worried was too tight instead hugged my curves purposefully and exposed a little cleavage. Or at least, that's how Raf had drawn it.

Her insanely high Christian Louboutin stilettos made a click-clacking sound on the airport floor. Amber rolled a small Louis Vuitton luggage bag behind her. She wore a baby-blue Chanel skirt suit, which made her look like an elegant celebrity. Her hair was long and blond today and pinned up into a perfectly smooth up-do. A pair of gold earrings in the shape of four-leaf clovers and a matching pendant completed the outfit.

Eric, my German hairdresser, was waiting for me in the large dressing room upstairs. He’d cut my auburn hair since I was six and had seen it through tragic self-trimmings of my bangs, unfortunate summers of excessive Sun-In use, and horrible home perms gone terribly wrong. He’d never shrunk from haughtily chastising me through my follicular antics and had thrown in plenty of Teutonic life coaching along the way, on every subject from pimply high school boys to current events and politics. And he’d pretty much made me feel equal parts stupid and uncultured on more than one occasion with his superior knowledge of theater and art and opera. But I loved him. He was important to me. So when I asked him to come to my wedding to transform my hair into an elegant and sexy and uncontrived but polished updo, Eric had answered, simply, “Yes.” And the moment I sat down in the chair, he chastised me for washing my hair right before I arrived. “Ees juss too smooz,” Eric scolded. “I’m sorry,” I begged. “Please don’t ground me, Eric. I didn’t want my head to stink on my wedding night.” And for the first time ever, I saw Eric crack a relaxed, mellow smile. I loved it that Eric was there.

As Mom clicks and clucks and coos, I know that one of these shots will wind up in a gallery frame on the wall upstairs. Long after the continuing saga of Kate and Ben reaches its next chapter, I will find her in the hallway, gazing at the glass with shiny eyes and a full heart. These will be her fossils in bedrock, her coral clues to a bygone era. A strange lump forms in my throat as Mom gently tucks a strand of my loose updo behind my ear. I was once your little girl. Iowa was once an ocean.

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It was a fairy moon. Pearlescent, glowing, and hanging low in the sky---cit was the kind of moon that spelled mischief and delight. Dina stood at the edge of the north field, where the fire was already burning. It had all been arranged by Nour, a kind of witchy wedding gift. Dina inhaled the midnight air, sweet and smoky. Her mother was silhouetted by the fire, loosening her hair from the updo she'd styled it in for the evening. Dina would be like her mother tonight: untamable, wild.

It was a fairy moon. Pearlescent, glowing, and hanging low in the sky---it was the kind of moon that spelled mischief and delight. Dina stood at the edge of the north field, where the fire was already burning. It had all been arranged by Nour, a kind of witchy wedding gift. Dina inhaled the midnight air, sweet and smoky. Her mother was silhouetted by the fire, loosening her hair from the updo she'd styled it in for the evening. Dina would be like her mother tonight: untamable, wild.

Our maids remove our curlers and begin the long process of giving us fancy updos to rival the most expensive salons in the twenty-first century. A marvel, really, considering they have no hair spray.

A curly wisp of hair had come loose from her updo, kissing the side of her face. Seth longed to brush it behind her ear, to feel the silky smoothness of her skin under the pad of his thumb. He clenched his fist before he followed through and got his hand smacked away.

An antique mirror showed off my now damp frizzy hair to perfection. Oh well, I’d tried. Jimmy’s hipster up-do still looked perfect, of course. I doubt Mother Nature would dare mess with him even at her bravest. She’d put so much effort into getting him right, after all.

I’ve got a shift ye can use that I can trim the hem from, but we’ll have to wait on the men for a proper dress. Now, how shall we do your hair? Up, I think. With a crown of heather. Aye. Darcy likes heather.” With Fran on a mission, Melanie had no choice but to follow her and weather the bustling wind of her energy. She dressed Melanie in a long cotton slip and began twisting and piling her hair into a graceful up-do. Laird Steafan might not be known for his hospitality, but Melanie could find nothing to complain about when it came to the generosity of his cottars. In fact, Fran seemed positively delighted to have Melanie disturbing what would likely otherwise be a peaceful night with her husband and baby. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said to Fran, meeting her eyes in the small bronze mirror on the chest of drawers. “I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me.” “Nonsense,” Fran said, her smile dimpling her cheeks. “It’s not hospitality. We’re practically family.

She clung to Darcy’s arm around her waist with one hand and to the horse’s mane with the other, and tried not to contemplate how disastrous a fall from this height would be to her and her baby. “Dinna fash, Malina,” he said in her ear as the wind licked locks of hair out of her up-do. “Rand willna let you fall. Nor will I.” Her racing heart had the gall to calm at his assurance, and her body had the gall to settle into the cradle of his chest, arms and thighs. She wasn’t enjoying the security of his embrace, she told herself. She was merely trusting her safety to an experienced horseman. Those weren’t giddy butterflies dancing in her tummy each time his fists brushed her lap. It was just a side effect of trying not to hyperventilate.

Ibiso bound her braids in a neat up-do and freshened up her lip gloss.

Perhaps she could do something nice for Mama instead of buying her things. She might see if she could keep the house tidied for her or find out one of the farm tasks that Mama didn’t love and do it for her. One thing was for sure: Elizabeth had all she wanted just being there with Mama. Maybe being with each other was gift enough. Later that day, when Elizabeth and Mama arrived at Beatrice’s house for her party, the door opened, and instead of the warm, arm-stretched hello Elizabeth had gotten as a child, a middle-aged woman stood in front of them. The woman had mousy hair swept into an updo, eyes that almost disappeared when she smiled, and a hunter-green corduroy dress with Christmas trees printed all over it. Her gaze fluttering over to Elizabeth, she beckoned them inside. “I’m Ella, Ray’s wife,” she told Elizabeth. “Nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said as Ella beamed at her over her shoulder, while her mother swung the gift bag with the kitchen dish and towel set she’d gotten for Beatrice by her side. Ella ushered them down the narrow hallway of the house to the kitchen that smelled of sugar and butter. The long rectangular farmhouse table was covered in Christmas cupcakes on pedestals, all of them decorated with different green and red icing shapes, assortments of holiday cookies, and platters of food. Ray was perusing the fare, pinching a few crackers with cheese, a paper plate in his weathered hand.

In five minutes, she had changed into her mother's dress and packed the other suitcase. She snapped a brown belt around her waist and tied her hair back to mimic her mother's updo. She crept to the kitchen and located her mother's purse, where she felt inside the zip pocket for lipstick and her mother's grocery money -- two hundred dollars. She dumped everything from her mother's purse except the money and the lipstick and hooked it on her arm. After packing her things, she took the diaper box and her suitcase to the truck. She lifted Bea from her crib and whispered, 'We're going to be okay.

In the human realm, aposematism underlies a wide variety of behaviors, such as wearing bright clothes, sparkling jewelry, or shoes that clack loudly on the pavement. Wearing prominent collars, headdresses, and elaborate up-dos and swaggering down the street with a blaring boom box all imply the same thing: "I'm not afraid to calling to myself, because I'm powerful

For a good hour, the hairdresser poked, prodded, and preened me. She twisted my hair into a loose updo, sticking white roses and baby's breath into my locks, the photographer capturing each step with her camera. Finally, Jane helped me into the dress. "Wow," said Phillipa with a gasp, staring at me. "You look absolutely gorgeous. Like you've fallen from the stars." "She does," said Marie, and everybody nodded in agreement. I hooked the necklace Rémi had given me around my neck. And then I took a good look at myself in the full-length mirror. What I saw shocked me. In this glorious dress, the way the silver threads sparkled, I felt like I was sparkling, too, like I had metamorphosed from a caterpillar into a wild butterfly. It was then that I found my own spirit insect---probably Grand-mère's plan all along. Le Papillon Sauvage. Me.

An “hourly girl”? The thought cut like a razor, and for the first time, it made her resent these women in updos and strappy sandals. If Heddy ever had money, she’d never make anyone feel like less because they worked in service. Her mother taught her to be thankful for any kindness the world showed her, and the two of them often listed three things they were grateful for over breakfast each morning, no matter how hard times were. She wondered what Jean-Rose was more grateful for—having two beautiful children, or having two servants, even “hourly” ones? Sadly, she guessed the answer was the latter.

Just the daily experience of walking down the halls proved liberating. Young women from Africa came to school wearing floor- length skirts in bright orange or hot pink, with contrasting head scarves in electric blue. Their counterparts from Southeast Asia showed up wearing hijabs adorned with sequins. Young men from Southeast Asia sometimes wore stripes of yellow paint on their cheeks as a form of blessing. Female students from the Middle East did their hair in elaborate updos and then draped wool scarves over their big coiffures, but wore jeans and American T- shirts. One day, I saw an Iraqi student wearing a black head scarf and a gray T- shirt that said I KNOW THAT GUAC IS EXTRA. You could be anything at all and register as gorgeous— you knew this, if you walked the hallways of this school. It was a place that eroded prejudices and expanded ideas of beauty.

The old man in the opposite seat has gone now. I can see my reflection in the dark glass, broken up every now and then by the flash of a light. A lock of thick, blonde hair has come loose from its up-do, and oh God, the make-up. I’d forgotten about that. I’m wearing way too much of the bloody stuff. Industrial quantities of it. I’ve been sponged and brushed to within an inch of my life. My eyes have been smothered with kohl and mascara. Apparently, it’s the smoky eyed look, but I’m not too sure. I look like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. If the house-mate hadn’t taken it on herself to give me a make-over first thing this morning, then I wouldn’t be looking like a cross between a tangerine and a clown right now. She’s good at plenty of things, Lucy, such as managing an art gallery and navigating her way around the London Underground, but she’s certainly useless when it comes to make-overs. I’ll swing by a shop when I get off the tube and source a packet of wipes