Word: haired
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Dates: during 1960-1960
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...France could shadow the moment; the eye of history could scarcely encompass the spectacle of so many potentates, Presidents and dictators. There sat Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev, his pink skull fringed with white, his face now frozen as a death mask, now galvanized into full-muscled motion. Behind him, rust-haired Josip Broz Tito of Yugoslavia posed self-assured and well fed. Scattered across the green-carpeted room, the members of the satellite pack waited with dull docility, their reflexes string-tied to the master puppeteer: Rumania's Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej, Hungary's Janos Kadar, Byelorussia's Kirill...
Waiting his turn to speak, he fidgets with his coat buttons, smooths his hair, swings his right foot restlessly. A gesture of extreme agitation: a desperate fingering of his necktie, reserved for the approach of Indians bearing war bonnets, nuns, or other disconcerting greeters. He obviously has a New England reticence about himself, is unwilling to surrender some recess of his privacy. Mingling with the crowds of well-wishers, Kennedy moves rapidly, shaking every available hand, signing autographs, smiling shyly and murmuring "Thank you" or "Glad to be here," as he goes. Greeting his fans from a distance, he lifts...
That unparalleled mixture of dignity and servility, the British butler, has lived for generations by the code of discretion. With an impassive "Very good, sir," he nonchalantly brushes a golden hair from the lapel of an employer whose brunette wife is impatiently awaiting him. He uses exactly the right tone of gentle authority when informing distraught young ladies that his master is not at home. Family secrets are locked inside his impassive exterior as in a tomb...
Chosen Issue. In part. Lodge's appeal derives from physical attributes. If Hollywood were casting Distinguished-Politician-as-Good-Guy, it could hardly find a likelier looking specimen than towering (6 ft. 2¼ in.), handsome Cabot Lodge. He is 58, has grey hair and eight grandchildren, but he still has a youthfully athletic air about him. His voice is throatily masculine, with a kind of standard, radio-announcer accent that shows only faint traces of Boston and Harvard...
...cloud-soft "swans" of England's Royal Ballet last week skimmed through a rehearsal of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, a small woman with grey sculptured hair clapped her hands to halt the piano in the pit of the Metropolitan Opera House. "What on earth are the swans doing? Really!" She asked in a voice edged with impatience. "Movements on strong beats, please. You understand, don't you?" And "Isn't this lighting brighter than in the first...