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I'm always having to be told to brush my hair.

I'm undaunted in my quest to amuse myself by constantly changing my hair.

I wake up every day and I think, 'I'm breathing! It's a good day.'

I've still got a brilliant head of hair, which refuses to lay down!

Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep watch over my thoughts, because, if a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.

Every day each of us wakes up, reaches into drawers and closets, pulls out a costume for the day and proceeds to dress in a style that can only be called preposterous.

I can't count the number of times I've been sound asleep, woke up, and I was doing my hair.

I've had some real hair disasters.

My hair is such a statement that it's like a neon sign asking for trouble.