A Quote by Leo Tolstoy

When one's head is gone one doesn't weep for one's hair! — © Leo Tolstoy
When one's head is gone one doesn't weep for one's hair!
What is it you want to change? Your hair, your face, your body? Why? For God is in love with all those things and he might weep when they are gone.
It's a classic love story: me and my hair. I have loved my hair. I have betrayed my hair. My hair and I have gone through this long, gut-wrenching relationship.
to weep for someone who is gone is desolation, but to weep for someone who has never really existed is to lose a part of oneself.
When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There was this thing written that I had gone into a candle store, and my hair went up in flames because of all the hair spray. First of all, I never have hair spray in my hair, and I've never even heard of this store, and my hair has never been burned.
And friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And gone my bier ye come to weep, Let One, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall; He giveth His beloved sleep.
My hair looks like it had been purchased at a rummage sale after all the real hair was gone.
In the godforsaken, obscene quicksand of life, there is a deafening alleluia rising from the souls of those who weep, and of those who weep with those who weep. If you watch, you will see The hand of God putting the stars back in their skies one by one.
Did I choose my hair texture? No. I'm grateful for having this hair on my head.
It's not the hair on your head that matters. It's the kind of hair you have inside.
I don't perm my hair anymore, but I'm not a natural hair expert just because it grows out of my head like that.
I guess I've maintained my hair. I'm like a Donald Trump. I have a good, solid head of hair, and that's been my trademark all these years.
But as the scissors snip-snapped through her hair and the razor shaved the rest, she realized with a sudden awful panic that she could no longer recall anything from the past. I cannot remember, she whispered to herself. I cannot remember. She's been shorn of memory as brutally as she'd been shorn of her hair, without permission, without reason... Gone, all gone, she thought again wildly, no longer even sure what was gone, what she was mourning.
So you say, with your shiny hair and pouty lips - and those breasts - just wait till you start dropping whelps, they'll be at your ankles one day, big as they are - not the whelps, the breasts. The whelps will be in your hair - no, not the shiny hair on your head, well, yes, that hair, but only as a manner of speech.
I had really long hair, and we had this hairdresser, Laverne, that was in Athens. And she did my hair up really big. And she said, 'Honey, when you hang your head over the bed and make love, that hair is not going to move.'
When they're gone out of his head, these words, they'll be gone, everywhere, forever. As if they had never been.
This site uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience. More info...
Got it!