An echo of music, a face in the street, the wafer of the new moon, a wanton thought - only in the iridescence of things the vagabond soul is happy.

In order to be utterly happy the only thing necessary is to refrain from comparing this moment with other moments in the past, which I often did not fully enjoy because I was comparing them with the other moments of the future.

Most barbers have one haircut they can do, and if they suspect you are asking for something different, they panic.

I've discovered over the years that if my hair is all right, then generally speaking, so am I.

Earlier this year I had my hair feng-shuied.

Hair is another name for sex.

Her hair In ringlets rather dark than fair, Does down her ivory bosom roll, And hiding half adorns the whole.

Gorgeous hair is the best revenge.

Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness and the word 'happiness' would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.

The secret to true happiness is low expectations and insensitivity.

Hair matters. This is a life lesson Wellesley and Yale Law School failed to instil. Your hair will send significant messages to those around you.

I have always believed that hair is a very sure index of character.

My moustache, however sparse, was all mine; it hadn't been put on with spirit gum. I felt it reassuringly with my fingers as I hurried back to school.

He needed a haircut-especially at the nape of the neck-the worst way, as only a small boy with an almost full-grown head and a reedlike neck can need one.

Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare, And beauty draws us with a single hair.

Tis not the beard that makes the philosopher.

There is not so variable a thing in nature as a lady's headdress: within my own memory I have known it rise and fall above thirty degrees.

A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin; what else does a man need to be happy?

In the same instant, as I straightened up, giddy with the effort of extricating a mullein from the cucumbers, I realized that the spiny coiffure was in actuality a home permanent and the bulging expanse of gingham below it the rest of Mrs. Kozlich, our current cleaning woman.

Two young ladies, in toreador pants and mohair sweaters, whose swirling coiffures looked as though they had been squeezed from an icing gun, had ranged themselves at the fountain.