Bon jour, fellow Spooners. How about some cereal and kiwi fruit for breakfast this morning? And since you're here, I want you to take a look at this hairdo of mine and tell me what you think. Am I just too punk for words, or what? All I need now are a few cans of colored hair spray and a safety pin through my cheek. Whaddayathink ... some blue spikes here, some red there, maybe a little yellow around the ears? We could dip the tail and turn it purple. Combine that with my motorcycle jacket, a nose ring, and one of those black leather collars with the silver spikes sticking out all around, and I'd fit right in down on Westheimer.

My hair stylist is just the cutest thing you've ever seen. She's a natural beauty with a sparkling personality and a ready giggle. And she knows all about my life, of course. We've been a team for the last seven years. I've followed her from salon to salon, and like to think that my loyal patronage helped her in some small way to finally open her own shop. Hair stylists are second only to bartenders (ain't that right, Dee?) when it comes to True Confessions, so she knows my whole story. She even knows about you Spooners.

How she remembers all this stuff is beyond me; I'm certainly not her only client. She's so popular, in fact, that I have to book her weeks ahead of time. But she manages to remember all the people, places and events in my life, including all your names, and I'm sure she remembers these same things about all her customers. This remarkable facility to store factual data is also what makes her such a perfect agent. She acts as a go-between for those double agents who are so buried so deeply undercover that they cannot possibly tag up with me in person. I make a regular appointment about every six weeks, at which time she passes on any vital information and I do the same.

We get the business at hand out of the way right up front. "What do you want this time?", she asks. "Just a tad off the top; not much, because it's really not too long. It's a bit shaggy over the ears, so cut that back. Leave the wispies long and jagged at the neck and take about an inch off the tail." That said, she then asks The Question, and off we go into the wild blue yonder, on autopilot.

"What have you been doing, you wild woman?" This is my signal to debrief. I launch into the stories. She comments, makes jokes, asks questions ... before long we are squealing and laughing and slapping our legs. Automatically her hands do their thing, lifting, snipping, measuring; meanwhile I'm blind as a bat because my glasses have to be off for this procedure. I can see our reflections in the mirror but I can't really tell what she's doing.

For this reason we have a deal: the cut is the important thing. For fun, she's allowed to style my hair however she pleases. The style will be washed out the next morning, but she has complete creative license with my hair for that sitting. Sometimes I come out of there looking like a reasonable person. Other times folks hide their children from me. Friday I emerged looking like the Punk Queen of the Bay Area. She had spiked the top out in forty different directions, one for each of my cowlicks, I suppose. It looked like she'd styled it with a weed-eater.

It was fun seeing the shocked looks on faces. I tell you, I felt just like a dangerous woman with that hair. Tina Turner didn't have nothin' on me, child. I washed it the next morning, thinking "the look" would be gone afterward and feeling just a little bit sad about that. As it turned out, though, the wash didn't really make much difference in the style department. It's so short, donchaknow, that it just naturally sticks straight up around each cowlick. And I have 'em all over my head. My mama must've licked me good before she set me adrift in Life's rushing river.

An appointment with Missy is always something I look forward to with great anticipation. We have magnificent fun together. And I can always tell exactly how much fun we had by how short the top of my hair is afterward. We must've really had a ball on Friday.

Think Muthah will like it?