I've calmed down now, thanks to Liz forcing me to show her my hair by pulling the covers off of my head and telling me it's much better than I thought it was. Apparently what I see as orange-roots-with-poop-colored-hair, she sees as Farrah Fawcett blonde. There's still the matter of the too-short, too-choppy, Bridget-Fonda-in-Singles meets "The Rachel" cut. Which is why I poured myself a delicious beer (Brooklyn Local #2, so wonderful). So, again, I'm calmer. But if you see someone walking down the street and you think, "that looks like Amanda, but WAY WAY UGLIER," it probably really is me. Hey, at least it's not purple anymore! (Which it was after the first round of color they put on it. Which is how I ended up with this current shade.) And yes, I went to my normal girl who I trust and love. I guess this was just an off night.