“Quintus…” Geryon mused. “Short gray hair, muscular, swordsman?”
“Yeah.”
“Never heard of him”

“gray hair is gods graffiti”

“I stood in front of him and I saw an old, stooped, bloated man with gray, slick hair, barely standing on his legs.”

“Oh, torture. Torture. My pubic hairs went gray.”

“Thomas watched him for a few minutes. Pop was good-looking, muscular, and his hair was almost gold even though it was getting a little thin on top. Thomas must have taken after his mother, whoever she was.”

“And then we saw him bolt.
We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,
And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and gray,
Like a shadow across instead of behind the flakes.”

“Vivian stared. Never had she seen a boy with such long hair! In fact, she had a vague notion that boys were born with their hair short back and sides and only girls had hair that grew long.”

“One day an army of gray-haired women may quietly take over the Earth!”

“When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.”

“You look like any other brainless jackanapes,” he mused, “but apparently there’s some gray matter left in your artfully coiffed skull after all.”