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.

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.

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

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.

Tis not the beard that makes the philosopher.

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

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.

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.

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

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.