Today I was watching that cell phone salesman on Oprah. You know, the one who can sing opera to cry for.

It just really got to me. Watching him stand up in front of Simon and all the other judges and seeing their estimation of him in their eyes. Something like, "Oh dear, another embarassment to Britain and the Queen."

Heck, even I judged him for one of the American Idol nitwits who dress up like Big Bird and sing like him too.

But then he opens his mouth and he sings the notes that he was born to sing, and I feel blessed just to witness a small man realise his very big dream. Because we're all so tiny, to see a man reach even a small portion of potential is like witnessing a supernova. It blinding in its amazing luminesence.

There is so much I want to do. I just pray everyday that I find what I'm looking for, even if I'm not sure what it is yet. Kinda like a search for significance.

uh.. there has been a recent development. Remember that snazzy hair cut that Ricky gave me? Well this morning I woke up, stumbled into the shower, and did what all people who take personal heigene (hiegene?...I dunno) seriously do.

I stepped out of the shower, to the mirror, and yes, sticking half an inch from my scalp, at my hairline is the mistake Ricky forgot to tell me about. I look like a chicken.

So to remedy this unfortunate incident I ran wailing down to my mother to point out the cruelties of hair stylists. I told you they were volatile creatures.

I should have seen the signs coming. Anyone who is in love with an N'Sync member has to have issues. Why couldn't Ricky have more taste (i.e. Christian Bale)? But no.

As hard as it seems to believe, Mom was even angrier than me. She started ranting about how we live in the Boonies now and how hard it is to get a hair cut. Something about mohawks and West Virginia. It was hard to catch it all because at that point I was still preoccupied with my sprigs of humiliation.

So Mom drove me to 'Bliss' and let those people have it. Luckily Ricky was out or else his mohawk would be scalped. I just stood there being miserable while mom explained how "terrible" it looked, making me feel marginally worse.

Starla, the edgy lady took me back and parted my hair the opposite way to hide the sprigs. It looks fine now, but the hair keeps falling in my eyes and making me crazy. I'm tempted just to shave it all off. Hair is overrated anyway.

So there is a lesson to be learned from all this. When your hair dresser is in love with Lance...RUNAWAY!!!!

Ok, so can I take this moment to state the obvious...My hair dresser is gay. And who saw that one coming?

In fact, the whole thing was a new experience for me. You can do a lot of soul searching in the twenty minutes before shearing off those dead cells. Unfortunately, I spent it all reading about Ashley Olsen's take on this winter's peacoat style.

Alas, I am getting ahead of myself. Let us start from the beginning.

So I drive myself to the dresser and I get there about twenty minutes early because I am always early to everything because I have no life. Wah, wah, wah. End of soundbite.

I have my favorite radio station on, 96.5, The Mountain turned up relatively high and I'm singing along to my song, when something catches my eye.

The hair place, Bliss has the actual definition of 'bliss'  on it: "A state of quiet euphoria." I realise now that I have been completely abusing that word because when I use it, I refer to a state of happiness, not incandescent contentment. I don't think I have ever been euphoric. Who is ever perfectly happy, not counting those free souls known as druggies?

Anyway, that started me thinking about the effect a good hair cut can have on your state of mind. It also started me thinking about the state a bad hair cut can put you in. Naturally I became worried, because I just moved here and hair dressers are volatile creatures. You ask for sweepy bangs they give you blunt. You ask for layers, they give you a mullet. The fact is they can not take orders. Even when you pay them 65 bucks. Yes my...I mean my parents' hard earn cash.

So with some trepidation I marched to the glass doors and up to the counter where an edgy looking sort of woman smiled and asked me to sign in. You put your name, whether you're a new client, and what your appointment is for. Simple enough, right?

Ok guys, the man actually wrote down 'back hair wax' on the third category. Good gracious, I'm treading on back hair. Disgusting.

Then comes Ricky. My lovely, adorable, gay hair dresser with the book by N' Sync's Lance called, "Out of Sync" rested apon his dresser. Yes. Ricky is in love with Lance. But hey, I'm in love with Christian Bale and we all have our issues.

So all in all, I like my hair cut. It's cute, it's different. It's the new me. And all for 65 bucks of my...I mean my parents' hard earned cash. Now I need a self help book and some acryllics (see previouse post).

hair cut-65 dollars.

book-17 dollars.

a new identity- priceless...unless you add those two figures together. Then it is actually 82 dollars.

Ok, so this is sort of how my day goes.

I crawl out of bed and yes, my mother is my alarm clock. Sue me or whatever.

 She is a unique mixure of the loud electronic alarm clocks, which beep inncessently and the wind up ones that remind me of fingernails on chalk boards and crying babies. What does my mother have in common with screaming babies, you ask? The only way to shut her up is to give her a pacifier (not literally of course, but you knew that).

Anyway, by the time I've taken my vitamins and made myself beautiful, we're late. Big deal. I'm in high school, what are they going to do to me? That's not what my brother thinks. "Sarah! We're late again! How am I gonna swap prepubescent spit with my girlfriend?!"

But its all forgotten in the light of my one true love. Yes, I stare and even drool a little bit, I think. First period, third period, and fourth period are filled with the shining stolen moments of a deranged sixteen year old. Not that I think I would like him any less if I were a deranged seventeen year old, which I will be in a few months

Let's give my love a code name. Mysuperheroagentlover. There. Very James Bond.

Mysuperheroagentlover knows I exist, because I am a cute girl, and believe me, Mysuperheroagentlover does not miss a cute girl, but the problems are that's not enough to get me in the doorway and I am a SHY cute girl. Talk about your worst nightmare. Pluse, I'm not hot. I'm cute. Think pixies and bunny rabbits. Right, not exactly lust inspiring. Inspireing? Whatever.

So I've been thinking in light of the problems I need to change my image. Like go blonde? Wear that tanning crap all over my skin? Get some acryllic nails.

Except I don't think it's going to crack Mysuperheroagentlover. Do I even want to crack him? More than likely, what I've imagined is so much better then the real thing.

In real life he's probably a lying, insensitive brute who has the IQ of a caveman/ jock.

Wait, I know he has the IQ of a jock. He is one. Oh, but he's such a cute jock....which in itself means he's shallow and concieted. I definitely do not want to crack this one.

Way to go Me, I just talked myself out of yet another relationship. Talk about your viscious cycles. This is worse than deathrow.