I've loved not being looked at so much since dyeing my hair dark for my part in Resident Evil: Apocalypse. With my normal blondey- brown colour, I get stared at so much, so I feel quieter, more low- key. It's like being undercover, as even friends of mine haven't recognised me. It was quite difficult to get used to. I would see a picture of someone blonde in a Polaroid or shop window and think: "Don't I look brilliant?" But then it wouldn't be me. But it does mean that I can wear brighter colours, as well as brighter lipsticks than usual. I've just done a shoot where I was wearing bright red lipstick - although that did feel a bit Eighties and weird, as if I were a Robert Palmer extra.
Sienna GuilloryRelated topics
apocalypse bit blonde bright brilliant brown colour dark done dyeing evil extra hair key low mean mine normal palmer picture quieter quite red resident robert see shoot shop think usual wear wearing weird well window friends eighties someone lipstick colours polaroid undercoverRelated quotes
I felt very awkward as a teenager. I wanted blue eyes, I wanted to be taller, I wore glasses, I got my chest early and I was very embarrassed about it. I just wasn't the kind of girl I thought guys would want to date. Though in some ways I was okay with that because I didn't want to date any boys anyway. I just wanted to be friends with boys, boys were cool with me. Until we were doing a show in school where we all had to wear these catsuits for a dance routine. I walked into the room, all boobs and bum, and the boys never looked at me the same way again. I was mortified. That's probably when I started wearing my stepfather's shirts, big and baggy, to cover up. I just wanted to stay a kid.
Anastacia
Every time my nose gushed blood, I felt like a little boy who'd wet his pants. I jumped out of the chair, pressed a handkerchief against my face, and hustled toward the nearest bathroom [...] How red the blood looked against the whiteness of the porcelain sink, I thought. How vividly imagined that color was, how aesthetically shocking. The other fluids that came out of us were dull in comparison, the palest of squirts. Whitish spittle, milky semen, yellow pee, green-brown mucus. We excreted autumn and winter colors, but running invisibly through our veins, the very stuff that kept us alive, was the crimson of a mad artist-a red as brilliant as fresh paint.
Paul Auster
The part that wasn't a jackpot was his baseball mound of red pubic hair that looked like it had literally been attached with a glue gun. I couldn't believe how much there was, and wondered how he had never heard of scissors, or--more appropriate for that kind of growth--hedge trimmers. I didn't understand what porn he was watching to not be aware of the trimming that was happening all across the world among his compatriots. I'm not a finicky person when it comes to pubic hair maintenance and I certainly don't expect men to shave it all off, leaving themselves to look like a hairless cat. That's even creepier then than seeing what Austin had, which could really only be compared to one thing: A clown in a leg lock.
Chelsea Handler
I now began to search for a new path in art [from 1914, with the outbreak of World War 1. ]. It was a major task. I understood that I did not have to paint what I saw, not even what I felt, but only that which lived within me, in my soul. To put it in symbolic terms, it is like this: I felt within myself, within my breast, the keyboard of an organ and I had to make it resonate. And the nature that was in front of me served me only as a prompter. And that was a key that unlocked this organ and made it resonate. In the beginning it was very difficult. But little by little, it became easy for me to use colours and forms to find what was within my soul.
Alexej von Jawlensky
A woman. Alive. In the daylight.
He stood, mouth partly open, gaping at the woman. She was young, he could see now as she came closer; probably in her twenties. She wore a wrinkled and dirty white dress. She was very tan, her hair was red. In the dead silence of the afternoon Neville thought he heard the crunch of her shoes in the long grass.
I've gone mad. The words presented themselves abruptly. He felt less shock at that possibility than he did at the notion that she was real. He had, in fact, been vaguely preparing himself for just such a delusion. It seemed feasible. The man who died of thirst saw mirages of lakes. Why shouldn't a man who thirsted for companionship see a woman walking in the sun?
Richard Matheson
