Women who play with their hair

You are amazing. Smart, stylish, a polished public speaker who demands attention with your passion, insight and—wait!—what were you were saying? I was distracted by your lustrous locks…and not in a good way.

You had me wrapped around your little finger, but I was swapped out for a lock of your hair. I see woman after woman playing with her hair like a nervous tic, tucking it repeatedly behind an hair, twirling it around a finger, pulling long locks from one shoulder to another, as if in an attempt to find a best side. You’re not Mariah Carey and your hair isn’t a binkie. If you continue to use your bob as a security blanket, I’m going to have to split…and you’re going to have a shitload of split ends. I speak the truth.

(photo: whatwomenlike.net)

The ever-present Bluetooth

Are you a cyborg? Ari Gold? A sex phone operator? No?

Too bad.

If you were, I might give your face a pass (particularly if you’re a T-800) but now I’m going to have to give you a smackdown that will leave you black and Bluetoothless. I know the frequency, Kenneth, and you and I are on different wavelengths.

The 2012 version of a pager clipped to your waist, an eewtooth not only receives messages, it sends one. It communicates one thing loud and clear: YOU’RE A MASSIVE TOOL.

If you have to try that hard to look important, chances are you’re not. Unless you’re driving or performing surgery or tracking down Sarah Conner, stuff that thing in your pocket. Heck, clip it to your belt. Maybe I’ll think it’s a pager, which is almost old-school cool by comparison. Almost.

(photo: submergemag.com)

Nicholas Sparks’ oeuvre

I’m a sucker for romance. Speaking of suckers, I don’t need my lovefest to be sprinkled with unrefined sugar. Romance is sweet enough on its own without the leading man—who, by the way, never remotely resembles Zac Efron in my dreams—uttering crap lines like, “You need to be kissed every day, every hour, every minute.” Even Robert James Waller would be ooked out by that. In any other universe, this soldier-turned-stalker would inspire a scary thriller. But this is Nicholas Sparks’ world, and we’re just the not-so-Lucky Ones to live in it.

His treacle makes me want to take a walk to remember…right off a cliff. I want to put a message in a bottle in hopes that someone will rescue me from Nights in Rodanthe and its ilk.

Dear John: It’s not me; it’s you. I have to stop seeing you or risk type 1 diabetes. 

(photo: freefreedownload.net)