His dark blond hair was short and neatly trimmed around his ears. The blond highlighted it just enough to make one think it'd been kissed by the sun, but I knew better. Stopping a few feet away, he watched me. I squirmed under his perusal. "So, are we going to the prom or what?" He laughed, revealing brilliant white teeth, though I saw no sign of his fangs...
There were two people... things at the cave entrance, ' I whispered, shuffling as close to him as possible, my eyes trained on where the strangers had stood only seconds ago. At my words, Patrick seemed to jolt awake. 'Sometimes the fire makes shadows when it's dying, ' he said, sitting up, his arm brushing against my side. 'I've slept here many times and it happens, ' he added. 'No. They were real.' My thudding heart was like thunder in my ears. 'They were really tall and pale, and blond, really, really blond.' 'Maybe, as you were falling asleep tonight, you were thinking about the shadows at your window, which caused you to dream about two blond men?' His warm breath tickled my hair. 'And maybe, deep down, you have a thing for blonds. I'm a little offended, actually.
Hey, our hair's the same color," I said, eyeing us side by side in the mirror. Sure is, Girlfriend." Eric grinned at me. "But are you blond all the way down?" Don't you wish you knew?" Yes," he said simply. Well, you'll just have to wonder." I am," he said. "Blond everywhere," I could tell as much from your chest hair." He raised my arm to check my armpit. "You silly women, shaving your body hair," He said, dropping my arm.
Yeah, well, you clearly also couldn't be bothered to call me and tell me you were shacking up with some dyed-blond wanna-be goth you probably met at Pandemonium. After I spent the past three days wondering if you were dead." "I was not shacking up, " Clary said, glad of the darkness as the blood rushed to her face. "And my hair is naturally blond, " said Jace. "Just for the record." Simon, Clary, and Jace, pg. 115
Ew. Someone put the dog out, "Rosalie murmured wrinkling her nose. Have you herd this one, Psycho? how do a blond's brain cells die?" She didn't say anything. Well?" I asked."Do you know the punch line or not?" She looked pointedly at the TV and ignored me. Has she heard it?" I asked Edward. No." He answered. Awesome. So you'll enjoy this, bloodsucker--a blond's brain cells die alone.
I gazed around the room and my eyes stopped dead on a little boy standing in the corner. This was a particularly eerie doll. Life-sized and blond-haired and blue-eyed. I saw a little Nazi boy, pockets probably stuffed with scissors and retractable blades. My grandfather on my mother's side was rumored to be half Jewish, which practically makes me Jerry Seinfeld's brother, and thus wary of blond German boys with their hands out of sight.
Lyon knew she wasn't aware she was being watched, either. She wouldn't have eaten the leaf otherwise, or reached for another. "Sir, which one is Princess Christina?" Andrew asked Lyon, just as Rhone started in choking on his laughter. Rhone has obviously been watching Christina, too. "Sir?" "The blond-headed one," Lyon muttered, shaking his head. He watched in growing disbelief as Christina daintily popped another leaf into her mouth. "Which blond-headed one?" Andrew persisted. "The one eating the shrubs.
What we have here is a war-the war of matter and spirit. In the classical era, spirit was in harmony with matter. Matter used to condense spirit. What was unseen-the ghost of Hamlet's father-was seen-in the conscience of the king. The spirit was trapped in the matter of theater. The theater made the unseen, seen. In the Romantic era, spirit overwhelms matter. The glass of champagne can't contain the bubbles. But never in the history of humanity has spirit been at war with matter. And that is what we have today. The war of banks and religion. It's what I wrote in Prayers of the Dawn, that in New York City, banks tower over cathedrals. Banks are the temples of America. This is a holy war. Our economy is our religion. When I came back to midtown a week after the attack-I mourned-but not in a personal way-it was a cosmic mourning-something that I could not specify because I didn't know any of the dead. I felt grief without knowing its origin. Maybe it was the grief of being an immigrant and of not having roots. Not being able to participate in the whole affair as a family member but as a foreigner, as a stranger-estranged in myself and confused-I saw the windows of Bergdorf and Saks-what a theater of the unexpected-my mother would have cried-there were only black curtains, black drapes-showing the mourning of the stores-no mannequins, just veils-black veils. When the mannequins appeared again weeks later-none of them had blond hair. I don't know if it was because of the mourning rituals or whether the mannequins were afraid to be blond-targets of terrorists. Even they didn't want to look American. They were out of fashion after the Twin Towers fell. To the point, that even though I had just dyed my hair blond because I was writing Hamlet and Hamlet is blond, I went back to my coiffeur immediately and told him-dye my hair black. It was a matter of life and death, why look like an American. When naturally I look like an Arab and walk like an Egyptian.