The Pixie Fixie.

Ahhh, to look like '80s icon Winona Ryder in all her pixie perfection. C'est possible. 

Oh dear; it's been a while since I've written a blogue here. Well, I've been off doing other things--writing a novel or two or three and praying like witch burning at the stake that they get published. Having various breakdowns and subsequent breakthroughs. Making the kind of personal discoveries that women make when they get old approach a certain age. You know, the kind of personal discoveries that lead women to take art classes. Or cut all their hair off.

In the past six weeks, I've gotten two haircuts:
Cut #1: After growing out a pixie that made me look like Ripley in Aliens 3 (my least favorite of the Aliens franchise), I had decently long hair, though with rabid split ends. The stylist, bless her heart (Kind Code for "Idiote," said with disdainful French accent) cut my hair into a rectangular shape reminiscent of a brown paper bag.

Cut #2: The second stylist hacked at my hair like I'd blasphemed his sainted grandmother and he'd been waiting for years to get revenge. Most mornings I wake up looking like Medusa in a car wash. Le Hubbins laughs. That's just what every 50-ish mature woman wants: to be made sport of.

Cut #3: Today, I'm doing what middle-aged women ladies of a certain age do while they're enrolling in art classes that will finally free their long-silenced inner children: getting another pixie cut. I have no choice--my hair is totally jacked--but I'm also looking forward to the Jeanne d'Arc freedom that is the Pixie Fixie. Finally, I can stop thinking about my hair and start doing the kind of intense navel-gazing that makes every little freakin' thing so darn meaningful.

If you, like moi, have a pixie fixation, check out Pixie Forever, which is as sassily written as it is stimulating to the hair follicles.

Kisses, misses.