Last Friday morning I made the third-biggest mistake of my adult life (I’ll tell you about the first two later) when I asked my hairdresser to dye my hair brown.  Okay, I didn’t exactly request “brown,” but I did ask her to take my hair a few shades darker for the fall.  See, I’ve been a fake, trashy dumb blonde for decades now, and as I ’round the middle-aged bend, I’m thinking that 1)  people may be starting to suspect that my bright and bouncy hair color is not, in fact, my bright and bouncy hair color, and 2) it’s getting holy-cow expensive to keep covering these roots.  So last week, in a flash of uncharacteristic bravery, I asked my stylist–who is beautiful, hip, and artsy–to make my hair the same color as, well, hers.  She works this kind of light-and-dark streaky thing through a tangle of loose curls, and it’s fab-u-loso.  Granted, she works it atop a willowy, stylishly dressed figure and boho-chic persona, but I figured, hey–if I can’t have any of those things, I can at least have her hair color.  There has to be something left in this world that money can buy.

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If a middle-aged mom trying to copy her younger and cuter hairstylist sounds pathetic to you, rest assured, my friends:  it was.  And it is.  ‘Cause see now, instead of short and “sassy” blond hair, I have short and demure brown hair.  A mere ninety minutes in the salon chair took me from Marilyn to Meryl. (As in Julie & Julia, not Mama Mia.  Although if this midlife crisis keeps up, singing through my pain is probably next.)