Sometimes I had the feeling that all of us in his family were like pets to him. The dog you take for a walk, the cat you play with and that curls up in your lap, purring, to be stroked - you can be fond of them, you can even need them to a certain extent, and nonetheless the whole thing - buying pet food, cleaning up the cat box, and trips to the vet - is really too much. Your life is elsewhere.
Quotes about curls (16 Quotes)
There it stands, with a toss of curls and a flounce of skirts, a Carmen among the cities. the last of the Middle Eastern fleshpots. a junction of intrigue and speculation.
His heart was like a sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the lightest breath of wind.
I look like a duck. It's the way my mouth curls up, or my nose tilts up. I should have played Howard the Duck.
It is impossible for a stranger traveling through the United States to tell from the appearance of the people or the country whether he is in Toledo, Ohio, or Portland, Oregon. Ninety million Americans cut their hair in the same way, eat each morning exactly the same breakfast, tie up the small girls curls with precisely the same kind of ribbon fashioned into bows exactly alike and in every way all try to look and act as much like all the others as they can.
My wife is pretty and she actually puts on makeup, curls her hair and puts on nice clothes. I'm sure if she were a model, she'd still do that.
He was sitting there doing curls with a bar and he's got a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. In the weight room, smoking while he's doing curls.
The knowingness of little girls Is hidden underneath their curls.
I have a bronze statue of myself, naked. I have these really big curls and water comes out of every curl. It's hot.
Where go the poet's lines Answer, ye evening tapers Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls, Speak from your folded papers.
Maybe I couldn't make it. Maybe I don't have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don't know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I'm sick of the masquerade. I'm sick of pretending eternal youth. I'm sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I'm sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs I'm sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I'm sick of the Powder Room. I'm sick of pretending that some fatuous male's self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I'm sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I'm sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.
I stood up well. He caught two balls on me, both of them curls, no deep balls. I'm happy with my play for the most part. I'm getting better every game.
Her eyebrows are clipped parentheses, and she paints her face for the last days of the Weimar Republic. Frizzy orange curls grow in her wild hair like snapdragons pleading for water.
In my Sunday School class there was a beautiful little girl with golden curls. I was smitten at once and still am.
Bob Davis is wearing his hair differently this year, short and with curls like Randy Jones wears, I think you call it a Frisbee.
And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire.