Wiggles’ husband may not like her hairdo, but i have a different problem. every so often, i spend a few hundred dollars on my hair to get it to have that glamorous, natural look. And it looks great, until the day when i pass a mirror and see that it is no longer glamorous nor natural, and instead, looks like it was styled by the homeless lady in our neighborhood who is always asking me for cigarettes even though i have graciously told her numerous times that i no longer smoke (honestly, why can’t she remember this?). Anyway, it is at that critical confrontation in the mirror that i suddenly see my hair is like a rainbow gone terribly wrong; dark brown (my natural color), with an icing of holy-crap-i’m-in-my-40s-gray, my expensive chestnut rinse, topped off by my even more expensive deep-red highlights. in short, it is a hair-horror show, and noticing it last week, just before starting previously-mentioned new job was poor timing, to say the least. I called my wonderful hairdresser, Paola, who is Greek and has a lot of problems with syntax but really knows her way around scissors and foil. “Come tomorrow in,” she said brightly. “Thank god the job you gat!” Unfortunately, because of the job i gat, i cannot come tomorrow in, and will have to wait till next thursday when i will even more closely resemble someone with a tic and an underprescribed regimen of clonopin.