After last month\’s reflectiveNESS, I\’m so ready. I want a “Do-Over,” henceforth and forevermore called a “DO.” I\’m tired, my body is tired, and my hair-do expired somewhere around 2003.

Why is it so hard for our hairdressers, or stylist, to be follictically correct (get it? mahahah…I so clever), to understand that all we want is a new or different look; preferably; one like Shania Twain\’s. Okay, so maybe I don\’t have long, flowing hair, but I do have hair. Work with me. Give me something new. Don\’t cut the same-old-same-old off my head and exclaim “Ooooo, La La, hun!” It\’s the same cut you gave me two months ago. I have eyes. I looked more like Shania Twain\’s mother\’s accountant than I do Shania. Say it with me-C-h-a-n-g-e. I want to look different. Cut it, color it, or shave it. Just don\’t give me the “She\’s over 50 and doesn\’t have long on this earth so why bother” style.

I\’ve noticed that as we pass a certain age (I won\’t mention which one), suddenly the whole world looks and reacts to us differently. We have money, we have the time for Pete\’s sake, and we have hair. Do something, or should I say, “DO” something?

Wait a minute, come to think of it, Shania Twain\’s Mother\’s accountant is probably raking in the moolah. Hmm…Okay, I can live with this. Whattttt? Hey, it could be worse. I could be looking like Shania Twain\’s mother\’s accountant\’s pizza delivery boy.

Now that could be a hair-raising experience. Ahem.

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