What is another word for curls?

Pronunciation: [kˈɜːlz] (IPA)

Curls are a popular hairstyle choice for both men and women, and there are many words that can be used as synonyms to describe them. Some of the most common synonyms for curls include ringlets, waves, spirals, tresses, coils, and kinks. These words can be used to describe hair that is naturally curly or hair that has been styled with a curling iron or other hair styling tool. No matter which word you choose to describe your curls, they are sure to add texture and dimension to your overall look and help you stand out from the crowd.

What are the paraphrases for Curls?

Paraphrases are restatements of text or speech using different words and phrasing to convey the same meaning.
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What are the hypernyms for Curls?

A hypernym is a word with a broad meaning that encompasses more specific words called hyponyms.

Usage examples for Curls

When, six years before, a brown-eyed little girl of nine, with long golden-brown curls, had moved into the house next door to the Raymonds, Mary had lost no time in making her acquaintance.
"Marjorie Dean High School Freshman"
Pauline Lester
Miss Merton stared coldly at the girl's vivid, colorless face, framed in its soft brown curls.
"Marjorie Dean High School Freshman"
Pauline Lester
The servants cut the sisters' hair, and remove the boy, still sleeping, with his little hands full of golden curls.
"Life and Writings of Maurice Maeterlinck"
Jethro Bithell

Famous quotes with Curls

  • His heart was like a sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the lightest breath of wind.
    Anne Bronte
  • I have a bronze statue of myself, naked. I have these really big curls and water comes out of every curl. It's hot.
    Macy Gray
  • I look like a duck. It's the way my mouth curls up, or my nose tilts up. I should have played Howard the Duck.
    Michelle Pfeiffer
  • Maybe I couldn't make it. Maybe I don't have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don't know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I'm sick of the masquerade. I'm sick of pretending eternal youth. I'm sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I'm sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I'm sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I'm sick of the Powder Room. I'm sick of pretending that some fatuous male's self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I'm sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I'm sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.
    Germaine Greer
  • During my high school years, a boy from my neighborhood named Malcolm chose me to be his friend for a season. His elbow nudged my book in the public library one Saturday afternoon as he sprawled forward across the table feigning some condition—boredom, I suppose. His voice was like shadow—as whispery and as indistinct as shadow, due to an adolescent change. “Do you want to wrestle?” he asked. I have never met anyone since who speaks as Malcolm spoke: He daydreamed; he pronounced strategies out loud (as I raked elm leaves from our lawn and piled them in the curb)—about how he would befriend this boy or that boy, never anyone I knew; Malcolm went to a different high school. “First,” he said, “I will tease him about his freckles. Then I will tease him about his laugh—how his laugh sounds a little like a whinny sometimes. I won’t go too far. You should see how his wrist pivots as he dribbles down the court. “He’s got these little curls above his sideburns. I wish I had those.” (He would catch me up on the way to the library.) “What are you reading? We read that last year. Not really a war story, though, is it? Want to go eat French toast?”
    Richard Rodriguez

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