The post in which I talk about Ashlee Simpson.

I think I lost most of you. But if you're still reading, I thought I'd report that I finally strapped one on and made an appointment to get my hair cut tomorrow. As far as I'm concerned, the only good part of a haircut is the cup of tea and the shampoo – the rest of it makes my knuckles white and my jaw clenched. Hair is emotional, and losing it – even voluntarily - makes me nutsy fagen.

That said, Something Needs to Be Done.

Colleagues and friends have had it to here listening to my hair woes. They’ve all weighed in eight million times on the pros and cons of layers, bangs and hair color. They lived through the Kentucky Massacre this fall, as well as previous unfortunate Pat Benetar/Joan Jett incarnations. Finally, someone suggested I dork out and show the stylist some pictures of hair I like.

Oh.
Good idea.

Stylist person, can you make me look cool yet approachable like Feist?



Or sassy like Stefy?



Or rocked-out like Ashlee? (Internet peeps, I know Ashlee Simpson is a complete toolbag, but I like her hair. And I am not ashamed to admit that I have a secret and unexplainable fascination with Jessica Simpson, who is oddly endearing in her idiocy.)




Can you please not make me look like a coal miner’s wife from the 1970s? Or give me a fullet? Or make my mom cry?

Fanks. ‘Preciate that.