You can't beat the beehive for glam punkette attitude.

If you want to gather honey, don't kick over the beehive.

If Amy Winehouse was a beehive, then I guess I'm a blonde bob.

My grandmother wore a beehive hairdo even when it was out of fashion.

No beehive. Beehives - we sort of put them - well, we revive them sometimes.

When you hear buzz around the beehive, you know they're making honey in there.

It isn't too bad for me as when I don't have a beehive, I can go incognito in my scruffs.

Our treasure lies in the beehive of our knowledge. We are perpetually on the way thither, being by nature winged insects and honey gatherers of the mind.

I like the Victory rolls, beehive, pompadour - all of that stuff. It's just cool. And actually, with ethnic hair, oddly enough, it works so well because I don't have to tease my hair to get body.

I was a big and un-ironic fan of Dear Abby when I was a kid in Chicago. I think I sort of internalized her. So I have this inner Abby: cranky, proper, folksy yet scathing, with a beehive hairdo. But that's my issue.

I was a massive fan of Amy Winehouse growing up. I decided it would be a good idea to become Amy Winehouse with the beehive and ballet shoes. Six months into that, I looked into the mirror and decided I'd better be Mia.

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