shaved QUOTES

21 " Alone meant absolutely no one giving me shit, involving me in shit, or generally being a shit. Alone didn't care what you wore or how many days it'd been since you washed your hair or shaved your pits. Alone accepted you exactly how you were. It never lied to me or let you down. For all of these reasons and more, I loved alone. We'd probably wed. "

― Kylie Scott , Twist (Dive Bar, #2)

23 " Her feet shifted underneath her. “I’m not sure what troubles
you.”

The wolf prowled, though he sat in a great chair. His uneasiness
made her skin tight and her heart race. Hakan was a handsome
man, very appealing to all of the fairer sex tonight with his black
jerkin stretched across broad shoulders. He had shaved for the
Glima festival, and his blonde hair, lighter from summer, loosened
from the leather tie.
“Many thoughts trouble me tonight, but Astrid’s not one of
them.” In the dim light of the longhouse, his white teeth gleamed
against his tanned face.
“Does your head ail you?” She clasped her hands together,
comfortable with the role of nurturing thrall.
“Nay, but ‘twould please me if you sat close to me and played
your harp.”
“Music would be pleasant.” Skittish and studying him under
the veil of her lashes, Helena retrieved her harp.
She sat cross-legged on a pelt near his chair. ‘Twas easy to
strum a soothing song and lose herself in the delicate notes her
fingers plucked. But when the last note faded, the restless wolf
stirred on his throne, unpacified.
“Why did you play that game with Astrid? Letting her think
more goes on between us?”
Ice-blue eyes pinned her, yet, ‘twas his voice, dangerous and
soft, that did things to her.
“I…I don’t know.” Her own voice faltered as warmth flushed
her skin.
Glowing embers molded his face with dim light. Hakan
leaned forward, resting both elbows on his knees. His sinewy hand
plucked the harp from her, placing it on the ground.
“Why?” Hakan’s fingertips tilted her chin. "

― , Norse Jewel (Norse, #1)

25 " You shaved for this." " For you." He clutched her bare legs under her skirt, reminding her he still expected a traditional get-laid one night stand.She shoved his hands off her. " Maybe I wanted rough stubble." " By morning it will be all yours. "

27 " There was just one moon. That familiar, yellow, solitary moon. The same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose--a gleaming, round saucer--over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. The same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travelers at night. The moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul--or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness. THAT moon. "

― Haruki Murakami , 1Q84 (1Q84, #1-3)

29 " Quickly I find another surprise. The boys are wilder writers — less careful of convention, more willing to leap into the new. I start watching the dozens of vaguely familiar girls, who seem to have shaved off all distinguishing characteristics. They are so careful. Careful about their appearance, what they say and how they say it, how they sit, what they write. Even in the five-minute free writes, they are less willing to go out from where they are — to go out there, where you have to go, to write. They are reluctant to show me rough work, imperfect work, anything I might criticize; they are very careful to write down my instructions word by word.They’re all trying themselves on day by day, hour by hour, I know — already making choices that will last too unfairly long. I’m surprised to find, after a few days, how invigorating it all is. I pace and plead for reaction, for ideas, for words, and gradually we all relax a little and we make progress. The boys crouch in their too-small desks, giant feet sticking out, and the girls perch on the edge, alert like little groundhogs listening for the patter of coyote feet. I begin to like them a lot.Then the outlines come in. I am startled at the preoccupation with romance and family in many of these imaginary futures. But the distinction between boys and girls is perfectly, painfully stereotypical. The boys also imagine adventure, crime, inventions, drama. One expects war with China, several get rich and lose it all, one invents a time warp, another resurrects Jesus, another is shot by a robber. Their outlines are heavy on action, light on response. A freshman: “I grow populerity and for the rest of my life I’m a million air.” [sic] A sophomore boy in his middle age: “Amazingly, my first attempt at movie-making won all the year’s Oscars. So did the next two. And my band was a HUGE success. It only followed that I run the country.”Among the girls, in all the dozens and dozens of girls, the preoccupation with marriage and children is almost everything. They are entirely reaction, marked by caution. One after the other writes of falling in love, getting married, having children and giving up — giving up careers, travel, college, sports, private hopes, to save the marriage, take care of the children. The outlines seem to describe with remarkable precision the quietly desperate and disappointed lives many women live today. "

31 " Rick Rubin's undulating face hair is just as famous as his body of work. In homage to the yogis he read about as a boy on Long Island, Rubin hasn't shaved since he was 23. It's long been his registered trademark. "