I dyed my hair red today.

When I went to the salon, I asked to have my sun-dappled, light brown hair dyed red. A "dark, rich, crimson red. Think Claire Danes in 'My So-Called Life.'" This technically made my hairdresser friend my Rayanne. Minus the booze.She mixed up all of the toxic-smelling brown goop in a plastic bowl and painted my hair in a way that made me looks as if I were wearing a plastic swim cap. This amused me. You probably don't give two shits, but whatever. For the first time, I got to go into the salon's luxurious basement waiting room, a soft-lighted sofa room with a flat screen TV playing "The Devil Wears Prada." I'm convinced that if you left in only the scenes with Meryl Streep and Emily Blunt, you'd actually have a decent movie. A decent 40-minute movie.When the film bored me, I muted it and shut my eyes. Why did I give her the cue to make me look like Angela Chase? Am I... lost? This is all too bizarre. Is Anne Hathaway really supposed to be tempted by this ugly dude with the highlighted eyebrows? He has pug face. Oh God, please don't make him take off his shirt. Thou hast forsaken meeeee.The hair turned out a little darker than I thought it would, but I'm quite pleased with it overall. It signals change, and I think that's very imporant. Angela would be proud. Then she would probably, like, cry.