Crunchy hair

We always want what we don’t have. Curly-haired vixens always want to kick their corkscrews to the curb in favor of stick-straight hair, while those of us with only a hint of a limp wave want undulating, Keri Russell-like locks of love.

We spray, rub, and massage curl-enhancing unguents into our manes. We scrunch. We dry with a diffuser. And voilà! We achieve the follicular stuff of which pre-Raphaelite dreams are made. One problem: we could blind a passerby with our crunchy curls. More post- than pre-Perseus Medusa, our hair is a mass of stone-cold locks.

Put down the can, jar, and bottle and learn to love yourself, limp hair and all. You could poke an eye out.

(photo: omgihavethat.blogspot.com)

Katherine Heigl's roles

Film, television, literature, and theater have long relied on stereotypes. And so does Katherine Heigl, who continually is cast as the gorge but constipated pill of a control freak.

Whether she’s wearing scrubs or her 27^th bridesmaid’s mess, The Ugly Truth is that she’s still a drag on my movie ticket. For the love of all that is good and holy, get this girl a three-dimensional role where she’s not sleeping with her Blackberry and jumbo bottle of Purell, with only a trainwreck of a man-baby possessing the ability to thaw her bland/blond sang-froid.

(photo: aceshowbiz.com)

Salon smocks

A spa or salon is generally supposed to make you feel serene, zen, pampered, beautiful.

At least I expect this every time I walk through the doors, and then it quickly goes to shit. I become agitated and feel like a tub o’ lady lard.

The problem? The chintzy, flimsy smock I’m invariably expected to wear. While I’m a busty gal and currently a few pounds over my fighting weight, I always hope that the salon's robe is going to cover my ass, not to mention my glorious ta-tas.

Not so much. I’m expected to cloak myself in a black or iridescent flame-retarDONT kimono-type dealio, “cinched” with a thin fabric tie. Aside from being wildly unflattering (and yes, cold), the robe gapes before I even leave the dressing room, causing me to clutch at my chest in hopes of avoiding a Janet Jackson moment.

Add some snaps and buy a few bigger robes, you cheap fucks, before I flash my fist at you and smack your smock back to Asia, from where I'm sure you ordered it. Namaste.

(photo: bshtextiles.com)

Curling iron burns

I’ve always wanted what I can’t have, and this certainly applies to my hair texture.

It started when I was 13. After an unfortunate attempt to rock a Dorothy Hamill wedge, I turned to the perm. In a word, oy. To amp up the foxy, I got a barrel curling iron to roll my bangs into a totally rad forehead awning…which I needed to cover up the burns I got every month or so from standing too close to the fire.

I eventually turned away from the 80s and curly hair and longed for stick-straight hair.

Enter the flat iron. Now, I smooth my locks and tamp down my cowlicks. In the process, I manage to regularly sear my skin, branding myself a dumbass. I currently have a mark on my neck that looks like Bill Compton has been snacking on my carotid artery. Call me crazy, but grown-ass women shouldn’t have vampire hickeys. Since I’m not going to embrace my natural beauty any time soon, Conair needs to invent an iron that doesn’t leave a mark of lame. In the meantime, I'm growing my hair out so I should be able to cover my cattle brand.

(photo: protechdesigns.net)

White guys with dreadlocks

Hey you! Yeah, you with the dreadlock fountain sprouting from your head. Guess what, Medusa? You’re not cool or interesting or indie. You’re dirty. With dreads, you look like Sideshow Bob, not Bob Marley. Cut that shit off and stop co-opting someone else’s heritage and style.

Note: While I’m not crazy about dreads on any Caucasian, it’s the dudes I am most annoyed at.

(photo: mobyrebuttal.blogspot.com)