Dear Diary,

I think there may be something wrong with me.  Like, I'm pretty sure that I have major issues.  Yesterday, I went to the mall with my BFF cuz we wanted to get our hair cut, right?  So, our plan was to get super sophisticated haircuts that would be total head-turners and totally score us some boyfriends.  Anyway, we weren't exactly sure what styles we wanted, but we knew that whatever they turned out to be, they had to be hawt.  So, like, the place we went to had two appointments in a row, which was kinda perfect cuz we could  hang out the whole time and talk about super important stuff that we haven't had time to get to lately, you know, like our plans for the weekend and, like, whether or not to wear glittery make-up.  You know, cuz it can look kinda baby-ish?  Well, anyway, the point is that we could finally spend some quality time and totally multi-task, and, I mean, how mature is that?  I think it was excellent preparation for all the demands of senior year!

Ok, but all that is not really the point.  The point is that we decided that she should go first cuz she let me have the middle bite of the cinnabon, a total sign of true friendship, right?  I mean, come on!  It doesn't get much better and more caring than that!

Alright, so she went first, and the woman who cut her hair starts going on and on about how great it is to cut your hair short and be, like, freed from the weight of long hair.  I guess she cut her hair off recently, so Heather, she agrees to it, and before you know it, snip-snip, her locks are piling up around the chair, and pump-pump, her chair is moving up and down while this butcher keeps destroying her beautiful 'do more and more.  Heather's looking in the mirror with this skeptical expression on her face, but then the hair-hater's all like "wow, you like gorgeous, so sophisticated and French, blablabla..." Heather and I were totally entranced by these words, and then the woman made Heather sing a Beatles' song and shake her hair cuz THAT's how her hair looked.  A bowl haircut straight outta the 40s or whenever The Beatles were popular. 

Ok, so you're probably wondering why I think something is wrong with me, right?  Well, here's the thing.  Once Heather climbed out of the woman's chair, all dazed and confused and light-headed cuz she had no hair left to keep her head grounded, I climbed in.  And snip-snip, pump-pump, I now look like Elvis.  And guess what?  Looking like some male heartthrob from ancient times is not sophisticated and French and elegant.  Yes, we've turned some heads, but they were mostly old ladies' heads.  I'm guessing tomorrow the tabloids are going to be announcing Elvis sightings at the mall.  Why would I do something like this?  I mean, ok, Heather had no idea what she was getting herself into, but I watched the entire horror show, and then I voluntarily allowed my looks to be destroyed, too.  Like, seriously?  How dumb can you be?  It's gonna take me at least 6 months to have enough hair for even a tiny Pebbles Flintstone pony tail. 

Oh my god, I don't think I can handle this.  I'm gonna go order that miracle hair growth stuff at the back of my fave magazine, and then invest in some hats, and then maybe get some wigs or something. 

Oh, yeah, and I'm gonna talk to my mom about homeschooling me for a while and maybe getting me some counseling for low self-esteem cuz I need some professional help.  I've heard of hysterical blindness...maybe that's what happened?  I dunno...something went horribly wrong, though.  Poor Heather is threatening to get 80 piercings and become a punk if her dad doesn't pay for her to get extensions. 

Miserably yours,
Elvisina