Eva Longoria it isn't.

I dragged myself to the salon the other day. When the fantastic, talented stylist, Lisa, asked what I wanted, what I had been thinking of, what hair direction I wanted to go in, I thought for a minute and quietly said, "Please fix it". I have no hair direction. And I haven't had coffee in weeks.

She flipped and brushed and smushed and pulled and tweaked for about twenty minutes, and said," I think I'm just going to rock some layers and give you something really sexy". And then clipped a twelve inch strand of hair off the back of my head to "put some volume on the top". Whatever. I wish I had a job where I could say things like "I'm gonna rock some layers".

It looked really quite fluffy and pretty when she was done, but frightened by all the layering, I immediately contacted several people to ask if I resembled an aging rock star. "It looks nice" was the general answer. And then I went to spinning class, and the sexy rockin' layers were destroyed by my gallons of sweat.

The next morning, I woke up early, knowing that this hair would require more attention than the hat I was usually willing to invest in my morning public appearances, and wielding a blow dryer and a round brush, I went to work.

And I wound up looking like Keith Urban's long-lost separated twin. On a bad day. The only "fluffing" I know how about is related to porn film production, and won't produce waves in my flattened, 80's Jon Bon Jovi hair.

I can feather, though. Is that making a comeback?

(Sigh.)