Wearing Wig Quotes

The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet. The difference between my sins and your sins is that when I sin I know I'm sinning while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions. I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean's waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea. You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron from hell yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig.

I was kidnapped by aliens, they came down from outer space with ray guns, but I fooled them by wearing a wig and laughing in a foreign accent, and I escaped.

The downside of my celebrity is that I cannot go anywhere in the world without being recognized. It is not enough for me to wear dark sunglasses and a wig. The wheelchair gives me away.

Senlin did not believe in that sort of love: sudden and selfish and insatiable. Love, as the poets so often painted it, was just bald lust wearing a pompous wig. He believed true love was more like an education: it was deep and subtle and never complete.

Check it out-this is a copy of a painting of a Greek High Priestess named Calliope. it says she was also the Poet Laureate after Sappho. Doesn't she look exactly like Cher?' Wow, that's insane. She does look just like young Cher,' Erin said. Yeah, before she started wearing those white wigs. What the hell's up with that?' Shaunee said. Damien gave the Twins a look. 'There is nothing wrong with Cher. Absolutely. Nothing.' Uh-oh,' Shaunee said. Stepped on a gay nerve,' Erin agreed.

I wonder if Effie will still be wearing that silly pink wig, or is she'll be sporting some other unnatural color especially for the Victor Tour.

How dare you suppose that I don't know who you are or what you are? That I don't understand what I see? Do you take me for some kind of besotted schoolboy? It is unspeakable! You could weigh as much as a hippopotamus and shave your head and wear a wig and it wouldn't make a difference to me. I never said you were beautiful. I never thought it. I said that you were you.

Grandma was wearing a blond Marilyn Monroe wig, a hot pink tank top, black Pilates pants, and black kitten heels. She looked like the senior version of an inflatable sex toy doll that needed more air.

Love, as the poets so often painted it, was just bald lust wearing a pompous wig. He believed true love was more like an education: it was deep and subtle and never complete.

Mia, Mia, Mia," he said, stroking the tendrils of my hair that had escaped from the wig. "This is the you I like. You definitely dressed sexier and are, you know, blond, and that's different. But the you who you are tonight is the same you I was in love with yesterday, the same you I'll be in love with tomorrow. I love that you're fragile and tough, quiet and kick-ass. Hell, you're one of the punkest girls I know, no matter who you listen to or what you wear.

Jared kept walking down the hall past rows of dead aristocrats. He was looking for someone. Then he saw her name, ELINOR LYNBURN, in faded gold on black wood. She looked even weirder than the dude in the white wig. She was wearing a cone-shaped headdress with a veil, and she seemed to be bald, which was hard luck on Elinor.

How did you not recognize her?" "She was wearing a wig!" Drake said defensively. "The same color as her hair!" Beatrice shot back.

Then comes the left jab again. A converted southpaw? It has something of the shift of locus which comes from making love to a brunette when she is wearing a blond wig.

Magnus had animated one of his magnificent Chinese fans, and it flapped ineffectively at him, barely stirring the breeze. It was, if he was completely honest with himself (and he did not want to be), a bit too hot for this new striped blue-and-rose-colored coat, made of taffeta and satin, and the silk faille waistcoat embroidered with a scene of birds and cherubs. The wing collar, and the wig, and the silk breeches, the wonderful new gloves in the most delicate lemon yellow . . . it was all a bit warm. Still. If one could look this fabulous, one had an obligation to. One should wear everything, or one should wear nothing at all.

Coraline? Oh, there you are. Where on earth were you?’ ‘I was kidnapped by aliens,’ said Coraline. ‘They came down from outer space with ray guns, but I fooled them by wearing a wig and laughing in a foreign accent, and I escaped.’ ‘Yes,

Georgette was a hip queer. She (he) didn't try to disguise or conceal it with marriage and mans talk, satisfying her homosexuality with the keeping of a secret scrapbook of pictures of favorite male actors or athletes or by supervising activities of young boys or visiting turkish baths or mens locker rooms, leering sidely while seeking protection behind a carefully guarded guise of virility (fearing that moment at a cocktail party or in a bar when this front may start crumbling from alcohol and be completely disintegrated with an attempted kiss or groping of an attractive young man and being repelled with a punch and - rotten fairy - followed with hysteria and incoherent apologies and excuses and running from the room) but, took a pride in being a homosexual by feeling intellectually and esthetically superior to those (especially women) who weren't gay (look at all the great artists who were fairies!); and with the wearing of womens panties, lipstick, eye makeup (this including occasionally gold and silver - stardust - on the lids),long marcelled hair, manicured and polished fingernails, the wearing of womens clothes complete with a padded bra, high heels and wig (one of her biggest thrills was going to BOP CITY dressed as a tall stately blond ( she was 6'4 in heels) in the company of a negro (he was a big beautiful black bastard and when he floated in all the cats in the place jumped and the squares bugged. We were at crazy pad before going and were blasting like crazy, and were up so high that I just didnt give ashit for anyone honey, let me tell you!); and the occasional wearing of menstrual napkin.

If the heart of Africa remained elusive, my search for it had brought me closer to understanding myself and other human beings. The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. It impels mighty ambitions and dangerous capers. We amass great fortunes at the cost of our souls, or risk our lives in drug dens from London’s Soho, to San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury. We shout in Baptist churches, wear yarmulkes and wigs and argue even the tiniest points in the Torah, or worship the sun and refuse to kill cows for the starving. Hoping that by doing these things, home will find us acceptable or failing that, that we will forget our awful yearning for it.

Our manly ways and stern simplicity wreak much confusion to the enemy's councils. For they are men yet garb themselves as women, wearing wigs and finery and lace. And for this offense if it be God's will we will come upon them in the night, from the rear, and penetrate their degenerate bodies with our holy truth. For we are manly saints and possess the full swelling hardness of our faith, which gushes forevermore from Christ's unyielding root.

you see, my whole life is tied up to unhappiness it's father cooking breakfast and me getting fat as a hog or having no food at all and father proving his incompetence again i wish i knew how it would feel to be free it's having a job they won't let you work or no work at all castrating me (yes it happens to women too) it's a sex object if you're pretty and no love or love and no sex if you're fat get back fat black woman be a mother grandmother strong thing but not woman gameswoman romantic woman love needer man seeker dick eater sweat getter fuck needing love seeking woman it's a hole in your shoe and buying lil sis a dress and her saying you shouldn't when you know all too well that you shouldn't but smiles are only something we give to properly dressed social workers not each other only smiles of i know your game sister which isn't really a smile joy is finding a pregnant roach and squashing it not finding someone to hold let go get off get back don't turn me on you black dog how dare you care about me you ain't go no good sense cause i ain't shit you must be lower than that to care it's a filthy house with yesterday's watermelon and monday's tears cause true ladies don't know how to clean it's intellectual devastation of everybody to avoid emotional commitment "yeah honey i would've married him but he didn't have no degree" it's knock-kneed mini skirted wig wearing died blond mamma's scar born dead my scorn your whore rough heeeled broken nailed powdered face me whose whole life is tied up to unhappiness cause it's the only for real thing i know

Excuse me while I throw this down, I’m old and cranky and tired of hearing the idiocy repeated by people who ought to know better. Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing. Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever. Real women start their lives as baby girls. And as baby boys. And as babies of indeterminate biological sex whose bodies terrify their doctors and families into making all kinds of very sudden decisions. Real women have big hands and small hands and long elegant fingers and short stubby fingers and manicures and broken nails with dirt under them. Real women have armpit hair and leg hair and pubic hair and facial hair and chest hair and sexy moustaches and full, luxuriant beards. Real women have none of these things, spontaneously or as the result of intentional change. Real women are bald as eggs, by chance and by choice and by chemo. Real women have hair so long they can sit on it. Real women wear wigs and weaves and extensions and kufi and do-rags and hairnets and hijab and headscarves and hats and yarmulkes and textured rubber swim caps with the plastic flowers on the sides. Real women wear high heels and skirts. Or not. Real women are feminine and smell good and they are masculine and smell good and they are androgynous and smell good, except when they don’t smell so good, but that can be changed if desired because real women change stuff when they want to. Real women have ovaries. Unless they don’t, and sometimes they don’t because they were born that way and sometimes they don’t because they had to have their ovaries removed. Real women have uteruses, unless they don’t, see above. Real women have vaginas and clitorises and XX sex chromosomes and high estrogen levels, they ovulate and menstruate and can get pregnant and have babies. Except sometimes not, for a rather spectacular array of reasons both spontaneous and induced. Real women are fat. And thin. And both, and neither, and otherwise. Doesn’t make them any less real. There is a phrase I wish I could engrave upon the hearts of every single person, everywhere in the world, and it is this sentence which comes from the genius lips of the grand and eloquent Mr. Glenn Marla: There is no wrong way to have a body. I’m going to say it again because it’s important: There is no wrong way to have a body. And if your moral compass points in any way, shape, or form to equality, you need to get this through your thick skull and stop with the “real women are like such-and-so” crap. You are not the authority on what “real” human beings are, and who qualifies as “real” and on what basis. All human beings are real. Yes, I know you’re tired of feeling disenfranchised. It is a tiresome and loathsome thing to be and to feel. But the tit-for-tat disenfranchisement of others is not going to solve that problem. Solidarity has to start somewhere and it might as well be with you and me

Bekka treated her role has Frankenstein's bride more like an audition to be Brett's bride. Every part of her body had been colored bright kelly green - even parts that her mother had stressed were 'not to be seen by anyone except God and the inside of a toilet bowl.' Instead of wearing a wig, Bekka had teased and then shellacked her own hair into a windblown cone and she'd used female-mustache bleach to create white streaks. Her seams, made of real suture thread, had been attached to her neck and wrists with clear double-sided costume tape because drawing them on with kohl would not have been 'honoring the character.' Her Costume Castle dress had been exchanged for something 'more authentic' from the Bridal Barn. If Brett didn't see his future in her heavily black-shadowed eyes tonight, he never would. Or so she believed.

It is impossible to be angry for very long with a man who wears a wig.

I was kidnapped by aliens,’ said Coraline. ‘They came down from outer space with ray guns, but I fooled them by wearing a wig and laughing in a foreign accent, and I escaped.

I was kidnapped by aliens,” said Coraline. “They came down from outer space with ray guns, but I fooled them by wearing a wig and laughing in a foreign accent, and I escaped.

Perhaps the most irrational fashion act of all was the male habit for 150 years of wearing wigs. Samuel Pepys, as with so many things, was in the vanguard, noting with some apprehension the purchase of a wig in 1663 when wigs were not yet common. It was such a novelty that he feared people would laugh at him in church; he was greatly relieved, and a little proud, to find that they did not. He also worried, not unreasonably, that the hair of wigs might come from plague victims. Perhaps nothing says more about the power of fashion than that Pepys continued wearing wigs even while wondering if they might kill him.

So I got my stuff and the girl at the register puts these other things in my bag, too. Little free samples: gum and a comb and a marker pen. So I says to her, 'Look, girlie, I got false teeth and I wear a wig.' So she fishes back in my bag and takes out the comb and the gum. Left the pen in there. Anyways, I went back to the van, even though I knew it was locked. Figured I'd just wait and have a smoke. You can't smoke in the van, see? So while I'm waiting there, minding my own business, this car pulls into the handicapped space right next to us--brand-new car, white and clean, and it's got this bumper sticker on it that says, 'Life Is a Shit Sandwich.' Isn't that stupid? So this guy gets out--good-lookin' fella, in his twenties. I say to him, 'Hey, handsome, tell me something.' He takes a look at my walker and gets all panicky. 'I'm just running in for two seconds,' he says. See, he thinks I'm going to yell at him for parking in a handicapped space, but I ain't. I don't give a rat's ass about that, you see. I'd rather walk the extra ten feet than be called handicapped. Where was I?' She amazed me. 'Life's a shit sandwich,' I said. 'Oh, yeah. Right. So that guy goes runnin' into the store and here's what I did. I fished that free pen out of the bag and marched right over there to that bumper of his. Got myself right down on the ground--and I wrote--just after the 'Life's a shit sandwich' part--I wrote, 'But only if you're a shithead.' 'Course, then I couldn't get myself back up again--had to yell over to a couple of kids at the phone booth to come pick me back up.

Coraline? Oh, there you are. Where on earth were you?’ ‘I was kidnapped by aliens,’ said Coraline. ‘They came down from outer space with ray guns, but I fooled them by wearing a wig and laughing in a foreign accent, and I escaped.

My name is Sally Webber. I’m a human from Earth, a college dropout with no career ambition. I’m wearing a wig, and I really need to sit down, these heels are killing me. And I’m going to save my planet and everyone on it from complete annihilation.

It's not that I'm complaining,' said Angua, 'but when we were assigned this job I thought it was me who was going to be the decoy and you who was going to be the back up, Nobby.' 'Yeah, but what with you bein' . . .' Nobby's expression creased as he edged his way into unfamiliar linguistic territory, '... mor phor . . . log . . . is . . : ally gifted. . .' 'A werewolf, Nobby. I know the word.' 'Right . . . well, obviously, you'd be a lot better at lurkin', an' . . . an' obviously it's not right, women havin' to act as decoys in police work. . .' Angua hesitated, as she so often did when attempting to talk to Nobby on difficult matters, and waved her hands in front of her as if trying to shape the invisible dough of her thoughts. 'It's just that . . . I mean, people might . . .' she began. 'I mean . . . well, you know what people call men who wear wigs and gowns, don't you?' 'Yes, miss.' 'You do?' 'Yes, miss. Lawyers, miss.' 'Good. Yes. Good,' said Angua slowly. 'Now try another one . . .' 'Er . . . actors, miss?' Angua gave up. 'You look good in taffeta, Nobby,' she said. 'You don't think it makes me look too fat?' Angua sniffed. 'Oh, no . . .' she said quietly.

Lady Ruby was behind the long wooden bar. Her shoulder length red wig was slightly askew and she was wearing a voluminous silver wrapper on her tall large-boned frame. She was also sporting enough silver jewelry on her wrists and fingers to be officially declared a mine.

I could see their menfolk patrolling nervously up and down toting sub-machine guns and draped in cartridge belts. They were wearing their trademark sunglasses, those gold rimmed feminine accessories which should look comic on a man but instead manage to look as sinister as the wedding dresses and blonde wigs worn by Liberia's drugged fighters. They are the modern equivalent of the wooden masks donned around night fires by warriors preparing to do battle, which turn their wearers into something utterly alien -- faceless instruments of violence capable of unspeakable acts.

The subtext was obvious: Love, pure and eternal, reigned supreme. Senlin did not believe in that sort of love: sudden and selfish and insatiable. Love, as the poets so often painted it, was just bald lust wearing a pompous wig. He believed true love was more like an education: It was deep and subtle and never complete.

If I had a sigh for every time I suffered a heartbreak, I would live forever.

Sometimes I wonder how it feels like to be nothing at all.

He hesitates, then turns and starts up her walk. Gives her a friendly smile, to boot. He wishes she wouldn’t wear a wig, or at least not one that sits so crookedly on her head. It’s a distraction. Sometimes he has to restrain himself from reaching over and giving it a little tug, then smacking her knee in a friendly way and saying, “There you go!” But why risk humiliating her?

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. It impels mighty ambitions and dangerous capers. We amass great fortunes at the cost of our souls, or risk our lives in drug dens from London’s Soho, to San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury. We shout in Baptist churches, wear yarmulkes and wigs and argue even the tiniest points in the Torah, or worship the sun and refuse to kill cows for the starving. Hoping that by doing these things, home will find us acceptable or failing that, that we will forget our awful yearning for it.

Her face shimmered with a dusting of powder and rouge. She was wearing so many undergarments that it felt as though someone had draped a fifty-pound weight over her body.How did girls move in these things?Let alone dance? As Anne-Marie drew the corset tighter around her torso, Luce gaped at her reflection. The wig made her look five years older.And she was sure she'd never had this much cleavage before. In any of her lives.

Such a creature—my, I’d love to know him!—   I’d call him Mr. Microcosm.   FAUST. What am I, then, if it can never be:   The realization of all human possibility,   That crown my soul so avidly reaches for?   MEPHISTO. In the end you are—just what you are.   Wear wigs high-piled with curls, oh millions,   Stick your legs in yard-high hessians,   You’re still you, the one you always were.   FAUST. I feel it now, how pointless my long grind 1840 To make mine all the treasures of man’s mind;   When I sit back and interrogate my soul,   No new powers answer to my call;   I’m not a hair’s breadth more in height,   A step nearer to the infinite.

The girls were always trying to rope me in to their games, dressing me in costumes and making me perform in their plays. You have no idea how character-forming it is for a young boy to be forced to wear a wig and gown and have his cheeks rouged!

he knew now Sebastian Acker could wear all the wigs he wanted, could play all the games in the world, but he’d never be dark. He wasn’t even Howl with his heart in a demon’s belly. He held it aching in his own bare hands, desperate to give it away, terrified to try.

As I watched him, he turned it curiously, then pressed a button on the side of the case. The crystal kitty head popped up to reveal a hidden compact mirror. “I think it’s you,” I chirped. Ben wheeled around and smiled approvingly. “I like it. Very Japanese.” “Thank you,” I said. “I also got something for you.” “I’m not wearing a wig.” “You’re such a downer.” I handed him a baseball cap, then took off my camera case and slung it around his neck. “There: Generic American Tourist. No one will look twice at you.” “I’ll choose not to take that as an insult.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled the wig from her head. He asked, bemused, “You just happened to have this lying about?” “I meant to wear it for a masquerade.” He chuckled, deep in his throat. An intimate sound that warmed her. “And you certainly did. The longest masquerade in history.

If Nin had anything to do with Gwen disappearing, I will drag her out of that lake by whatever wig she’s wearing, and—” “Her hair is incorporeal,” Merlin puffed, turning without breaking stride. “I know,” Val said. “Just let me have one moment of righteous anger against that beautiful horrorshow.

By noon they will all be at my new house in the Victor’s Village. The reporters, the camera crews, even Effie Trinket, my old escort, will have made their way to District 12 from the Capitol. I wonder if Effie will still be wearing that silly pink wig, or if she’ll be sporting some other unnatural color especially for the Victory Tour. There will be others waiting, too. A staff to cater to my every need on the long train trip. A prep team to beautify me for public appearances. My stylist and friend, Cinna, who designed the gorgeous outfits that first made the audience take notice of me in the Hunger Games.

Teddy Roosevelt?" I suggested. Sadie and I had been trying to figure out the second mathlete's costume for a few minutes. He was wearing a 1930's-style suit,had his hair slicked down carefully, and was sporting a fake mustache. "No glasses. And I can't even begin to imagine the connection between Davy Jone's Locker and Teddy Roosevelt." Sadie pulled a long gold hair from her pumpkin-orange punch and sighed. Maybe her mother hadn't topped her Sleepy Hollow triumph, but it wasn't from lack of determination. What Mrs. Winslow hadn't achieved in creativity (she'd gone the mermaid route), she'd made up in the details. The tailed skirt was intricately beaded and embroidered in a dozen shades of blue and green. It was pretty amazing.The problem was the bodice: not a bikini, but not much better as far as Sadie was concerned. It was green, plunging, and edged with itchy-looking scallops. She was managing to stay covered by the wig, but that was an issue in itself. It was massive,made up of hundreds of trailing corkscrew curls in a metallic blonde. To top it all off, the costume included a glittering, three point crown, and a six-foot trident, complete with jewels and trailing silk seaweed. "Sadie," I'd asked quietly when she'd appeared at my house, shivering and tangled in her wig, "why don't you..." Just tell her where she can shove her trident? But that would just have been mean. Sadie gives in and wears the costumes because it's infinitely easier than fighting. "...come next door and we'll see if Sienna has a shawl you can borrow?

We are defined not by what grows from our heads, but what flows from our hearts. That is our greatest testimony. Our hair may be our crown, yet a life of love and service is our real glory. So as we navigate our journey, let us graciously make space for one another. Whether you relax it or coil it, weave it or dread it, cover it with a wig or cut it plumb off, the choice is yours. Good hair is your hair—however you decide to wear it.

Suddenly you see a tall, thin man approaching, whose extraordinary costume immediately rivets your attention. Perched on top of a jet-black wig he wears a small grey felt hat, and everything else about him—coat, waistcoat, trousers, socks and shoes—is grey to match. Even his preternaturally long walking stick is painted grey. He comes striding towards you, with his great deep-set eyes staring straight at you, but appears to be quite unaware of your existence.

This is the worst idea ever,” Lend shouted from behind the closed door as Arianna finished pinning my hair under a brunette wig. “I’ve been having a lot of those lately, but one of us wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my most recent one.” “Well, you look the part, at least,” Arianna said, standing back to admire her handiwork. I was in a fitted, sleek black pantsuit with a blouse underneath. The blouse was white. I hated it already. That, combined with the too-dark hair and colored eyebrows making my tragically pale skin even white, and I was not loving life. Still, sacrifices had to be made. Jack was lying on the bed with his head hanging over the side, his face slowly turning more and more red as the blood rushed to it. He looked phenomenally bored for someone about to break into a secret international high security facility. I slipped into my favorite stilettos, took one step, and fell over. “Ouch.” Shaking off the shoes, I rubbed at my still-tender feet. The stilettos were so not happening. That did it. If I didn’t already want to destroy the Dark Queen, the fact that she had ruined my ability to wear high heels put her at the very top of my hit list. She was so going down.

Because it is illegal to talk to a stranger on a train, it can sometimes be confusing when someone stands on your foot or hits you with their briefcase and then fails to say sorry. Which is why I have decided to carry an air horn with me at all times, and when someone stands on my foot I will set it off in their face and then go back to reading my paper. I imagine this will make people want to avoid standing on my feet, but if I've paid good money for the air horn, I'll want to use it, so I'll wear massive clown-shoes while travelling. I'll also wear a red nose and a wig. Essentially, I really want to get into clowning.

She went alone to the vast room where the second-hand clothes were kept. Later, she thought it the happiest hour of her life. There were silks and brocades by the yard, and pile upon pile of hats, wigs, cloaks, and masks. After two years in wretched rags, even the linen shifts felt as soft as thistledown. She whirled from one delight to another- clutching lace, burying her nose in furs, holding flashy paste jewels next to her new-bleached skin. Catching her reflected eye in the mirror she laughed out loud, her red mouth wide and knowing. She put aside a few carefully-chosen costumes and elbow-length mittens. Then, finally, she chose a few costumes of a particular nature: shiny satin, ebony black. Lastly, she gathered the garments she would wear for her journey: a grass-green woolen gown and a lace cap and apron. The effect was somewhat grand for a domestic servant. Her auburn locks were pinned tightly, her figure flattered by a frilled muslin kerchief, crisscrossed in an 'X' over her breast. Pulling out a few auburn tendrils from her cap, she adjusted her bodice to show a little more flesh. Then she grew very still, and smiled slowly into the empty space before her. "How do you do, sir," she said with a graceful curtsy. "Now, what pretty dish might you care for tonight?

You have only hours until you go from palace servant to the future queen of Aurelais. Many will not take the news well, particularly not the blue-blooded young ladies who will resent the prince for rebuffing them for you." Cinderella thought of her stepsisters, who'd reveled for years in tormenting her. "I can handle it." When she did not elaborate, Genevieve appraised her. "When Charles declares that you are to be the princess of Aurelais, all attention will be on you. This is the first impression everyone will have of you. "You have natural grace, which most princesses take decades to learn, but it won't be enough. Nothing would ever be enough, even if you had been born royal." The duchess lifted Cinderella's chin so their eyes were level. "In my time, we stood by the three P's. I thought it was a bunch of hogwash, but I'll impart it to you anyway. It was essential that a princess be poised, pleasant, and-" "Pretty?" Cinderella guessed. "Presentable," corrected the duchess. "That's what all the wigs and powder and rouge were for. Nowadays, women are more after the natural look. Which, I suppose, isn't a problem for you." She hummed approvingly. "Now, what color gown should you like to wear tonight?" "Something blue," replied Cinderella thoughtfully. "It was my mother's favorite color, and I wish with all my heart she could have met Charles and seen us together." "That's a beautiful thought, Cindergirl.

After the assembly I’m getting my chem book out of my locker when Peter comes over and leans his back against the locker next to mine. Through his mask he says, “Hey.” “Hey,” I say. And then he doesn’t say anything else; he just stands there. I close my locker door and spin the combination lock. “Congratulations on winning best group costume.” “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?” Huh? “What else am I supposed to say?” Just then Josh walks by with Jersey Mike, who’s dressed up as a hobbit, hairy feet and all. Walking backward, Josh points his wand at me and says, “Expelliarmus!” Automatically I point my wand back at him and say, “Avada Kedavra!” Josh clutches his chest like I’ve shot him. “Way harsh!” he calls out, and he disappears down the hallway. “Uh…don’t you think it’s weird for my supposed girlfriend to wear a couples costume with another guy?” Peter asks me. I roll my eyes. I’m still mad at him from this morning. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you when you look like this. How am I supposed to have a conversation with a person in head-to-toe latex?” Peter pushes his mask up. “I’m serious! How do you think it makes me look?” “First of all, it wasn’t planned. Second of all, nobody cares what my costume is! Who would even notice something like that?” “People notice,” Peter huffs. “I noticed.” “Well, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry that a coincidence like this would ever occur.” “I really doubt it was a coincidence,” Peter mutters. “What do you want me to do? Do you want me to pop over to the Halloween store during lunch and buy a red wig and be Mary Jane?” Smoothly Peter says, “Could you? That’d be great.” “No, I could not. You know why? Because I’m Asian, and people will just think I’m in a manga costume.” I hand him my wand. “Hold this.” I lean down and lift the hem of my robe so I can adjust my knee socks. Frowning, he says, “I could have been someone from the book if you’d told me in advance.” “Yes, well, today you’d make a really great Moaning Myrtle.

Hugh Hue is colorblind. Or maybe he isn’t, and that’s not his name at all. Maybe his name is Mr. Green, and his friends call him “Red” because he wears a red wig and a red circular sponge-like nose.

Although CALLIE BATES’S cancer is well into remission, she still wears her purple wig when she wants to feel like a rock star. A recent graduate of the International Harp Therapy Program, she lives in Wisconsin. Her other writing projects include a nonfiction book reflecting on her cancer experience and diverse novels. Her selection in this anthology, “The Purple Wig,” is her first published work. MELISSA

Almost impatiently, Sybil stood by while the gray-eyed man wearing a powdered wig signed the guest book. Her glance shifted to the book. “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Sobczak. I expect you’ll enjoy your stay,” Sybil said, and clapped her hands. Two ATU agents, dressed as servers, moved closer. “Ma’am?” one of them—Sybil thought his name was Mike—asked. “Please escort Mr. and Mrs. Sobczak to the dining room.

An old woman wearing a crooked wig sat in a wheelchair, staring past me as if expecting some long-ago suitor to emerge from the parking lot and sweep her away. She smiled as I passed, but not at me. I didn't exist in her world, no more than the ghosts of her memory existed in mine.

I didn't have the best night's sleep. It was full of limping strangers, cats with keys, postmen wearing fright wigs and Miss Jane Marple hanging upside down like a bat.

would prance around the place smoking cigarettes through an outrageously long holder, wearing a russet curly wig and a long copper-colored gown that hung from her bony frame, conjuring to Alex’s mind the image of a man-sized cockroach standing on its hind legs.

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!

The actors usually wear wigs and face masks, or they paint their faces

Someone will say or do something that offends a group of people, so the offended group will argue that the act was unpatriotic and harmful to democracy. In response, the offending individual will say, “Actually, I’m doing this because I’m patriotic and because I’m upholding democracy. You’re unpatriotic for trying to stop me.” Round and round this goes, with both sides claiming to occupy the spiritual center of the same philosophy, never considering the possibility that the (potentially real) value of their viewpoint hinges on the prospect that patriotism is not absurd and democracy is not simply the system some wig-wearing eighteenth-century freedom junkies happened to select.

And then he fucked her. Fucked her fucked her. He fucked her until tears came to her eyes. Fucked her until she couldn’t even scream. She just opened and closed her mouth with no sounds coming out. She could barely breathe. He fucked her until her body shook. Fucked her until he snatched the wig she wasn’t even wearing. But it was when Novah moaned, “You look so fucking good handling my dick like a champ,” that the three of them lost it.

Dolphins like to wear hats,” said Coleman, a joint dangling from his lips as he drove. On his head was one of those afro wigs painted in a rainbow.

They say you are as blind as a bat, and too vain to wear spectacles,” the voice beside her announced. Clarissa blinked in surprise. But if she was taken aback by his bluntness, she suspected she was no more so than the speaker himself. She heard a small gasp of breath as he finished, as if he’d just realized what he’d said. A quick glance to the side showed that he’d raised his hand as if to cover his mouth. “I am sorry; I have obviously been too long out of society. I should never have—” “Oh, bother.” Clarissa waved his apology away and sank back in her seat with a dejected sigh. “’Tis all right. I do know what people are saying. They seem to think that I am deaf as well as clumsy, for they do not worry about saying things in front of me—or at least behind their fans—loudly enough for me to hear.” Making a face, she mimicked, “‘Oh look, there she is, poor thing—Clumsy Clarissa.’” “I am sorry,” her companion said quietly. Clarissa waved his words away again, only this time noting the way he dodged as if to avoid a blow to the head. Frowning, she clasped her hands and settled them in her lap, repeating, “There is no need to apologize. At least you said it to my face.” “Yes, well…” The man seemed to relax in his seat now that her hands weren’t waving wildly. “Actually, it was more a question. I was wondering if you truly are?” Clarissa smiled wryly. “Ah, well, I am not quite as blind as a bat. I can see with spectacles. But my stepmother has taken them away.” She threw a dry smile in the general direction of his blurry shape and then shrugged. “Lydia seems to think that I will have more luck setting a fire in some suitable man’s heart without them. The only thing as yet that I have set fire to is Lord Prudhomme’s wig.” “Excuse me?” the stranger asked with amazement. “Prudhomme’s wig?” “Hmm.” Clarissa leaned back in her chair and actually managed to chuckle at the memory. “Yes. Though if you ask me, ’twas not wholly my fault. The man knew that I could not see without my spectacles. Why the deuce he asked me to move the candle closer is beyond me.” Clarissa paused to squint in her companion’s general direction. “He is bald as a cue ball without his wig, is he not?” She thought the man nodded, though it was hard to say. He was emitting small choked sounds it took her a moment to identify. He was fighting desperately not to laugh! “Go ahead,” Clarissa said with a small smile. “Laugh. I did. Though not right away.” -Adrian & Clarissa

We’d have to start wearing long wigs and eye shadow and glitter pants.” “Okay, okay, well, that’s life,

March 15: Marilyn arrives to shoot Bus Stop in Phoenix. She is photographed wearing a black fur as she disembarks from the plane with Greene, camera in hand, beside her. Then she is photographed with her co-star, Don Murray, and her director, Josh Logan. Milton Greene keeps tight control on the set, allowing few photographers to shoot Marilyn at work or journalists to interview her. Arthur Miller writes to Saul Bellow, who is in Nevada, establishing the six-week residency to qualify for a divorce: “I am going out there around the end of the month to spend the fated six weeks and have no idea where to live. I have a problem, however, of slightly unusual proportions. From time to time there will be a visitor who is very dear to me, but who is unfortunately recognizable by approximately a hundred million people, give or take three or four. She has all sorts of wigs, can affect a limp, sunglasses, bulky coats, etc., but if it is possible, I want to find a place, perhaps a bungalow or something like, where there are not likely to be crowds looking in through the windows. Do you know of any such place?” Because of the Bus Stop shooting schedule, Marilyn is not able to visit Miller.

Be fair Ven, it's like wearing a blue wig and then saying don't look at my hair. It's one of those things it's imposable not to do," complained Kyle, trying to adjust to the gloom again. "You may as well have given us a donut and said not to lick our lips." "Did you be saying we have the donuts for eating?" inquired Al as his belly did somersaults. "Sorry big guy, no donuts." Ven wondered again how they had all survived so long, she really did despair at times. Their

Mia, Mia, Mia,” he said, stroking the tendrils of my hair that had escaped from the wig. “This is the you I like. You definitely dressed sexier and are, you know, blond, and that’s different. But the you who you are tonight is the same you I was in love with yesterday, the same you I’ll be in love with tomorrow. I love that you’re fragile and tough, quiet and kick-ass. Hell, you’re one of the punkest girls I know, no matter who you listen to or what you wear.

I realized, now that I was sitting here, how much I craved the act of doing just this, every day: watching her, making sure. Shadowing her. I could devote my life to that, I thought. Ducking behind columns, wearing wigs and fake mustaches, hiding behind bushes, sitting two rows behind her and her friends in the movie theater. It was a way to not have to live anymore, while making sure she stayed alive

Chap in the cagoule.” “What’s a cagoule?” “Eleven? Do I hear eleven? Big fat man with the shameless wig? No? Still with the chap in the lightweight, knee-length anorak of French origin, very popular with bearded prannies who wear ethnic shoes, get off on Olde English folk music and have girlfriends called Ros who run encounter groups where you can find your true self and be at one with the cosmos. Eleven still with you, sir.” “Well!” said the chap in the cagoule. “I don’t know if I want it now.” “Oh go on,” said Ros, his girlfriend. “Twelve,” said a new voice.

So thank you to the writers and creators of LOST for giving us an alternative to an hour of Geraldo Rivera that will actually lead us to think and pick up an essay written by a wig-wearing man form the 1600s. Who would have guessed all this could come from a story of a cadre of beautiful people stranded on an island?

She was bony, with firm, stringy muscles, and had no business wearing a tank top. Her Bellevue eyes complemented the wild salt-and-pepper hair that was straight out of a fright-wig catalog, or perhaps one of Darwin’s early sketchbooks. She appeared to be in her late fifties and was a quintessential New York loon—one of those classic Upper West Side ladies who smiled too much, had intergalactic notions about the existence of man, yet fiercely observed the High Holidays.

sounded like another language entirely. I felt relieved, momentarily, to be a relatively worldly Lubavitcher, even if I didn’t entirely fit in with the Crown Heights crowd. — Much to my disappointment, Miri was rarely to be seen. Most days she left the apartment around ten in a giddy rush and returned in the early evening with armloads of shopping bags, only to leave again for dinner with her friends. But one morning, when Leah was otherwise engaged, I was finally recruited for shomeres service. We were going to Ratfolvi’s, in Flatbush, to pick up the sheitel that Miri would be required to wear as a married woman. Pulling up to a residential building, we let ourselves into Mrs. Ratfolvi’s wig shop/apartment and sat down in the reception area, where four or five women were chatting away on a damask sofa and chairs. While we waited our turn, I examined the rows of wigs on display: there were various shades of brunette, blonde, and ginger; short, teased bouffants and glamorous, shoulder-length falls; wigs encased in rollers and wigs that were fully styled, needing nothing more than a final shpritz of hair spray. They were set upon Styrofoam heads complete with turned-up noses, high cheekbones, and luscious lips that looked like they could come alive at any moment. I longed to get my hands on a brush and a pair of scissors so that I could create my own visions of tonsorial loveliness. I did this from time to time to my dolls, to my mother’s great irritation, and here was a whole wall of victims. When Miri’s name was called, she plunked herself into the salon chair and pulled the silk scarf off her ponytail. I stood as close as I could without getting in the way. From conversations that I’d overheard between my mother and her sisters, I knew that Mrs. Ratfolvi was considered “the best,” and I was eager to watch her at work. The “rat” in her name had led me to expect someone old and unattractive, but she was actually a nicely put-together middle-aged woman. The receptionist brought over a plastic case about the size of a chubby toddler. In one expert motion, Mrs. Ratfolvi clicked it open, withdrew the fully styled wig on its Styrofoam head

Much like all other paraphilias, fetishes can be situated on the mild-to-severe continuum. An example of this range is depicted in the following scenario of four men, all having a fetish for women with long hair. The first man might have a mild fetish for women with long hair simply because he has always perceived the longer length to be more sexually appealing. The second man, functioning in the mild-to-moderate range, might whistle at and call out to an otherwise unattractive female with long hair yet remain silent when an extremely attractive woman with short hair walks past him. The third man, operating in the moderate-to-severe end of the continuum, might be unable to achieve an erection during intercourse unless he wears a long-haired wig or his partner has long hair. The fourth man might be able to attain an orgasm simply by looking at or touching the desired object. This behavior demonstrates that the individual functions at the severe pathological end of the paraphilic spectrum. The absence of deploying such fetishes in the extremely paraphilic-prone individual can cause erectile dysfunction (APA, 2000).

I told him I would rather wear the same wig for the rest of my life than spend a minute in his presence.

A second later, still mid-pee, I realized it was my father in clown makeup, wearing my discarded pom-pom on his head like a fright wig and laughing hysterically. This was the night I discovered that bored parents can be dangerous and that it is very hard to wash urine out of tennis shoes.

The possibility brought on a wave of unexpected disappointment. I shoved the emotion into a cute little Mason jar and vacuum sealed that sucker shut. I had no business wanting to see Torin in a fight or any other capacity aside from a paycheck. That’s why you’re wearing this ridiculous wig, remember? No entanglements with dangerous men.

That was Mrs. Roopy wearing a powdered wig and an army uniform.” She may have been right, but I didn’t want to admit it, because I hate her.

I’d have to transfer to a new school and wear a weird DISGUISE, like maybe a cheap wig and fake mustache, to hide my true identity. Then I’d be even LESS popular than

Pinky Pig by Maisie Aletha Smikle Pinky pig is big Pinky wears no wig Pinky likes to wallow Pinky’s wallow makes her cotton white hair butter yellow The butcher comes calling Pinky started bawling I ain't your bacon I ain't your ham I ain't no steak I ain't no loin called Sir Am just a pig Called Pinky Don't use me for steak I take too long to bake Am not fit for a cake My life is at stake But all you need is steak Steak rare Steak medium Steak well done See I ain't none I ain't rare I ain't medium I ain't well done It's the season To be butchered and eaten But I ain't your steak to bake Am just Pinky the pink pig

My mother made me wear a dark wig when I was two. She started dyeing my hair dark when I was about five because she didn't like my blonde hair. Everyone thinks my hair is naturally dark brown or black but it;s not. My natural hair color is actually golden blonde. Got my blonde hair from my grandmother. My sons got my natural blonde hair.

My mother made me wear a dark wig when I was two. She started dyeing my hair dark when I was about five because she didn't like my blonde hair. Everyone thinks my hair is naturally dark brown or black but it's not. My natural hair color is actually golden blonde. Got my blonde hair from my grandmother. My sons got my natural blonde hair.

My gender was constantly on trial. I was being treated like a child, back to being a teenager again, trying to justify myself to an authority figure. He wanted to see 'proof.' I'd show up for the session and he would ask, 'So when are you going to start dressing like a woman?' My heart would sink... It was absurd that he thought just because I wanted to be a woman, that I no longer wanted to wear black clothing and would adopt perfume and frilly dresses. Then it finally clicked for me. The therapist just wanted to see me in a wig, mascara, and high heels. He needed to see what he thought a woman should look like, and his idea of femininity.

One humid summer night in Austin, Texas, Mamrie Hart and I spent an hour drunkenly arguing and openly crying on the street while wearing David Bowie– and Tina Turner–inspired wigs, butterfly eyelashes, and KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD tie-dyed T-shirts.

To say that that which was true in the 17th century cannot possibly be true today, because we travel in jet planes while they traveled in horse carts—is like saying that modern men do not need food, as men did in the past, because they are wearing trenchcoats and slacks, instead-of powdered wigs and hoop skirts.

The painting now hangs in the gallery at the Old Royal Observatory. It shows Harrison as a man to be reckoned with. Dressed in a chocolate brown frock coat and britches, he sits surrounded by his inventions, including H-3 at his right and the precision gridiron-pendulum regulator, which he built to rate his other timepieces, behind him. Even seated he assumes an erect bearing and a look of self-satisfied, but not smug, accomplishment. He wears a gentleman’s white wig and has the clearest, smoothest skin imaginable. (The story of Harrison’s becoming fascinated with watch-works in childhood, while recuperating from an illness, holds that he suffered a severe case of smallpox at the time. We must conclude, however, that the tale is tall, or that he experienced a miraculous recovery, or that the artist has painted out the scars.)

He became so fond of wigs that he started to wear rotating wigs of different lengths to give the impression of his hair growing then being cut.

All right, keep your wig on,” said Carl. “I’m not wearing a wig,” said Creepo Jones, sounding confused.

The collection of hair is now like a thin layer of cloth-black, white, brown, grey, coarse, fine and now a lock of long blonde. Perhaps he can weave them into a wig for the woman on the couch, now waiting on his bed. Afiq twirls the hair around his fingers, wears them like rings, lays them across his forehead like a cold towel, coils them around his neck-like a noose? He puts them in his mouth-spit-because they taste like soil. Soil and blood, and wet leaves from the rain last night, the girl's shampoo faded, no longer fresh off the head. Afiq is in a state. His face is still stinging from the slap, so he sets the hair alight-fire, fire! Like he sets the neighbour's cat on fire-meow meow, kucing gila; like he wants to set his mother's bed on fire-'Mama, I hate you!' There he's said it. Because he wants to know what singed hair smells like, and if a neighbour walks in, or his mother if she could, or the police, then they'll think he's the bomoh of Sungai Emas. And maybe he is, but now he thinks only about the body he left behind, but surely she must have woken up. He worries about the girl, worries that his fingerprints will be all over her, worries if she will ever grow her hair back. Afiq lies on his bed, but she's only young, surely she will grow them back.

Somehow even wearing a sparkly dress and a platinum wig, he can still turn me on.  Stupid award-winning dick.

Juniper looks at her--this little old woman with a powdered wig and a big office on the fancy side of town---and understands perfectly well. She understands that the Women's Association wants one kind of power--the kind you can wear in public or argue in a courtroom or write on a slip of paper and drop in a ballot box--and that Juniper wants another. The kind that cuts, the kind with sharp teeth and talons, the kind that starts fires and dances merry around the blaze.

wigs atop the disembodied heads of mannequins. My own hair is not on display yet, which I suppose makes sense. It must take time to create a wig. “Also, you should know,” Helga adds, “that all of our wigs come with a set of ornamental combs.” She digs around in a chest by the wigs until she pulls out a small box. I open it up, and inside is the most beautiful set of tortoiseshell combs. It is the loveliest Christmas gift I could imagine. Helga squints up at me with her cloudy pupils. “Do you want to be blond again?” “No,” I say thoughtfully. I run my hand through one of the red wigs. I wonder what I’d look like wearing it. People probably wouldn’t even recognize me. “I think it’s time for a change, don’t you?” She clears her throat. “What do you wish to trade for one of my wigs?” I reach into my pocket. I pull out a pocket watch with a silver chain attached to it and hold it out to her. “This is a lovely piece.” She clutches the chain of the watch with her gnarled hands. She runs her thumb over the glass cover, halting on

Sometimes I wonder how it feels like to be nothing at all Shattered and lonely, just fearing downfall. When the world hits you hard, smashes you down, Where the people you loved are forever gone. Sometimes I wonder if happiness existed Sadness would not be any of our business. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel complete The negativity to my life will automatically delete. Sometimes I wonder how it feels like to be nothing at all. Shattered and lonely, just fearing downfall.

She is an entire galaxy of pious thoughts and beautiful imaginations. An ocean you would love to drown in. A garden you would love to walk through. A fragrant flower that could cure a sick. She is what people dream of. She is what God would’ve spent the most time creating. She is what deserves to be loved even more and more each passing second. The way she could capture someone’s mind. The way she could make you drown into her world. Her world of never ending talks and never ending love. She is everything. She is what could not be replaced by anybody in this entire world. How lucky to know someone like that belongs to you. She is the kind who could easily possess someone’s soul and make it obsessed with her. She is the kind of attraction that attracts a soul. Not a body. She is all that you want. She is literally everything. How lucky it is to know that people like these belong to you. They’re yours’. And you know that no matter what, they will always stick to you. Ask you if you’re okay and if you had a good day. She is all that I need to spend a happy life.

Living anonymously in a new city and wearing wigs and sunglasses most of the time, I felt as if I were in a witness protection program, hiding out from the cancer that had tried to kill me.

The director also insisted that Weston wear his Bowman wig in the sweaty, overheated environment of the suit—a directive the stuntman soon evaded by discreetly flipping the thing into a corner of his high launch platform.

Sean's a creep! You're better than this!" She stands, glaring at me. "I am better than this. I'm better than Sean, and I'm better than the Watchers, and you have no idea what I'm doing, so keep your judgy eyebrows to yourself." "My eyebrows are not judgy!" "Your eyebrows are so judgy they might as well have a gavel!" We both glare at each other. I crack first. "Can they have a frilly white collar like Ruth Bader Ginsburg?" She tries to hold her stern look, but the edges are trembling. "No. Your eyebrows have to wear a huge gross wig because we're not in the USA, we're in Ireland." I snort, which turns into a giggle. Artemis was never one for giggling, but even she grins at me, and for a few precious moments we're each other's again.

You are Nicholas Ivanek-Williams. But I’m guessing you don't use the whole name when on stage, yeah?” “That's right.” “Because you wouldn’t sound like a comedian, yeah?” “I suppose.” “Because you'd sound like an eastern European lawyer?” “What’s wrong with being eastern European?” He looked around theatrically as if playing to some invisible audience. “Nothing,” he said innocently, “I was just saying that’s what you’d sound like in the milliseconds between your name being called out by the compere and the audience making their mind up about you. Interesting that you didn’t ask what’s wrong with being a lawyer though, isn’t it? You just focused on the other part.” “I don’t like lawyers.” “Nobody likes lawyers, Nick. Even lawyers don’t like lawyers, that’s why they’re always trying to put each other off by wearing those silly wigs.

Her husband had done away with the white paint and wig Bastien had insisted he wear to Versailles, and yet he was still confined to an outfit of his cousin's choosing, and unused to the ruffles and lace of Parisian finery. His discomfort reminded her of the time Lumière had wrangled the Beast into something of a courtly ensemble. Even rough around the edges, Lio still looked princely standing there among them, shooting her apologetic glances when he could, knowing she was probably tallying all the absurdities she'd been made to endure thus far. He owed her. She had half a mind to demand he present her with another library for her troubles.

Vain of his hair, which was blond and thick, he didn’t commonly wear a wig, choosing instead to bind and powder his own for formal occasions. The present occasion wasn’t formal in the least. With the advent of freshwater aboard, Tom had insisted upon washing Grey’s hair that morning, and it was still spread loose upon his shoulders, though it had long since dried.