Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Furrow. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Furrow Quotes And Sayings by 96 Authors including Stanley Victor Paskavich,James S.a. Corey,Oliver Goldsmith,Jim Crace,Theophile Gautier for you to enjoy and share.
Balding is nature's way of getting rid of your third eye's unibrow.
How the fuck do you keep your hair like that? I look like a hedgehog's been humping my skull.
What if in Scotland's wilds we viel'd our head, Where tempests whistle round the sordid bed; Where the rug's two-fold use we might display, By night a blanket, and a plaid by day.
As a Midlander and a big walker, I'd always loved ridge and furrow fields, the plough-marked land as it was when it was enclosed. It is the landscape giving you a story of lives that ended with the arrival of sheep.
The cat is a dilettante in fur.
Hell hath no fury like a bunch of raggy women with scissors in their hands and hot wax at their disposal.
The razorous shoulder blades sawing under the pale skin.
Dishonor is like the Aaron's Beard in the hedgerows; it can only poison if it be plucked.
Whenever anyone suggested that she looked as if she'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, she used to groan loudly and ram in a few more pins until her head was a complete porcupine's back of hairpins!
hair that she often pinned back with
Pulling back a stray lock of hair, she drew a question mark around her ear. p. 314
atop his head a goofy skin cap simulating baldness and fringed with shoulder-length scraggle.
Fashion makes the fur fly.
Many go out for wool, and come home shorn themselves.
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair-
Long hair will send you to hell!
The fields are black and ploughed, and they lie like a great fan before us, with their furrows gathered in some hand beyond the sky, spreading forth from that hand, opening wide apart as they come toward us, like black pleats that sparkle with thin, green spangles.
A thistle grows about here which has needles on it that would pierce through leather, I think; if one touches you, you can find relief in nothing but profanity.
I used to have really long hair. It was a big fro with mad curls.
isn't a hair, you can't just pull it out. And no ritual can make it stick. Why cry over it? Who
Pluck not the wayside flower;
It is the traveler's dower.
What is that hair? So yesterday.
Satan's hairy ass!
shorn their heads
flaxen mane and tail. The Black Forest horses had a draft-like
As a young man, I used to sport a rather ragged beard [ ... ]; it doesn't suit and in its untended state I can often come to look like a set of sensory organs lost in a raspberry bush.
No, bwother, I have gwown moustaches myself,
Cut your coat according to your cloth.
The stallion and his mare,
unbridled, with arrow-pattern,
are worked on.
the blue cloth
before the door
of religion and inspiration ...
Oh, I burned it with my straightener."
"You burned your leg with your straightener? How long is your leg hair?
The world's all razors, that cut you no matter what you do.
Means of dealing with the Three Furies before they drove her crazy or assassinated each other with rolling pin or knitting needle.
The barberry berry sticks on the small hedge,
cold slits the same crease in the finger,
the same thorn hurts. The leaf repeats the lesson.
My mullet was an insecurity shield. My mullet was an ethnic hatchet. My mullet was an arrow on fire.
My mullet said to the literary world, Hello, you privileged prep-school assholes, I'm here to steal your thunder, lightning, and book sales.
Concurring hands divide
flax for damask
that when bleached by Irish weather
has the silvered chamois-leather
water-tightness of a
skin.
Fighting with tangles,
fighting with curls,
the poor barber yanked,
the poor barber pulled,
until with one last effort
(and to the wonder of us all)
a GINORMOUS Polar Bear
landed on the floor.
Emily's ginger brows were knit tight, the edges of each almost meeting over the bridge of her pert nose. You know I will, you daft baggage. As if we have any other option.
Wrinkle not thy sable brow at me, my friend. All will be known to you at last. To you as to every man.
His hair is like feathers.
It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less by baldness.
His hair is huge! ... Look! ... It's just sticking up at odd angles! Like a demented porcupine! - Desmond, about Fletcher's hair
God made them as stubble to our swords.
Fenwick, sitting down to
The cunning livery of hell.
Tangle me up like Grandma's yarn,
Ground, impaled on the trunk of a tree that has been shaved down to the point of
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? For this your locks in paper durance bound, For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around? 100 For this with fillets strain'd your tender head, And bravely bore the double loads of lead?
The feasant hens of Colchis, which have two ears as it were consisting of feathers, which they will set up and lay down as they list.
We cannot rein wild horses with silken braids.
Her hair is troublesome and curly ... It falls in long, black strands, but each strand has a gentle, complicated undulation travelling through it, like a mild electric shock or a thrill, hat gives it a life of its own; it is visually analogous to a tremolo on a musical note.
Fur used to turn heads, now it turns stomachs.
I use a pick in my hair without force.
You use a lawn mower-you got peat moss.
Krawg's vulturebeak nose twitched in the middle of the few undisciplined whiskers that grew where a mustache did not.
To carry timber into the wood.
[Lat., In silvam ligna ferre.]
Her pubic hair grew like a patch of grass that had been trampled by a passing army.
If the wind doesn't blow...row
No female iniquity was more severely condemned [in the 14th century] than the habit of plucking eyebrows and the hairline to heighten the forehead.
My hair covers my scarring.'
'But we've agreed that no one notices your scarring once they're around you. You woo them like a big, fat hairy black spider, and no matter how much they struggle they're helpless.
I must to the barber's, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.
Mr Witwould: "Pray, madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep copies." Mrs Millamant: "Only with those in verse ... I never pin up my hair with prose."
I have a beard of grass. I grew it on my back, and sometimes my neighbor mows it for me. Meow!
Long hair is an unpardonable offence which should be punishable by death.
In war, you win or lose, live or die - and the difference is just an eyelash.
The scissors cut the long-grown hair; The razor scrapes the remnant fuzz. Small-jawed, weak-chinned, big-eyed, I stare At the forgotten boy I was.
Symbolic of life, hair bolts from our head[s]. Like the earth, it can be harvested, but it will rise again. We can change its color and texture when the mood strikes us, but in time it will return to its original form, just as Nature will in time turn our precisely laid-out cities into a weed-way.
Whither thou know'est thy ass from thy elbow
I never wear pigtails, I wear plaits.
Hair brings one's self-image into focus; it is vanity's proving ground. Hair is terribly personal, a tangle of mysterious prejudices
Walls have tongues, and hedges ears.
Corneille is to Shakespeare as a clipped hedge is to a forest.
I am choking in the suffocating foul air of the harbor. I want to hoist my sails in the open sea, even though a tempest may be blowing. Furled sails are always dirty. Those who would deride me are so many furled sails. They can do nothing.
From ragbag, stumblebum, peripatetic lout
To bonfire of catnip that burns itself out
Bristled sack of hiss & claws
Cinched at the maw
At Imbolg, we always use a version of that in our ritual, with each person who wishes to pulling out three strands of hair by the roots and feeding them into a flame while putting themselves anew under the protection of Brighidh.
The Razor's Edge,
An equally shaggy tuft of hair dangled from his chin, the classification somewhere between beard, goatee, and flower gone to seed.
Albacete (AL-ba-seet) n. A single surprisingly long hair growing in the middle of nowhere.
I'd rather not deal with such questions, because anyway it's like shearing a pig - lots of screams but little wool.
So thick with cobwebs it seemed like skeletons had decorated for a party. Raven fought her way through the webs to the far wall and ripped the velvet cloth off the mirror. She saw her own reflection staring back - long black hair with purple highlights, dark eyebrows,
Knitted fur is so modern and light, it makes this retro shape cool again.
The dirt of gossip blows into my face and the dust rumors cover me. But if the arrow is straight and the point is slick, it can pierce through dust no matter how thick.
a heavy, hooded wool
Look at this tangle of thorns.
Your face was furrowed by the plow of grief, and blood flowed freely from Your thorn-crowned brow; such
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?
Your hair looks like a haystack...but I like it.
There's always a way to wear fur,
I say and maintain, that of all torcheculs, arsewisps, bumfodders, tail-napkins, bunghole cleansers, and wipe-breeches, there is none in the world comparable to the neck of a goose ...
I have certain signatures, certain cutting principles. It could be a raw-edged seam; it could be leaving the lining of sheepskin exposed so it's not perfectly finished. I invent new ways to do it, but the end goal is always the same.
They go the long way but we take the short cut Give me the blonde hair, long weave, short cut
Society is divided into two classes, the shearers and the shorn.
The thicker the hay; the easier mowed.
We will now sing forth, hymn 405, 'Oh God, what on earth is my hairdo all about?
Smooth out with wine the worries of a wrinkled brow.
When I get a fringe, it's because I'm bored or need a change; I always regret it!
I have this lock of hair that keeps falling across my forehead. It drives me mad.
If my hair gets any frizzier, I'll shave it to the scalp. Or light it on fire. Whichever is easier.
It was a bowl cut, the hairstyle for someone who doesn't grasp respectable haircuts but suddenly has to have one.
My hair grows and grows; you cannot stop it - that fellow grows, it grows wild.
This love is thickly plaited.