About 'like fifty shades of gray'|Jimmy Savile in a time machine in an odd e-book not like Fifty Shades of Grey

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About 'fifty shades of grey fifty shades trilogy'|Review: The Fifty Shades Trilogy (Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker, Fifty Shades Freed) by E L James

About 'fifty shades of grey fifty shades trilogy'|Review: The Fifty Shades Trilogy (Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker, Fifty Shades Freed) by E L James

"Ｔｈｅ               Ｆｉｆｔｙ               Ｓｈａｄｅｓ"               ｔｒｉｌｏｇｙ               ｂｙ               Ｅ.Ｌ. Ｊａｍｅｓ               ｗａｓ               ｉｎｔｒｏｄｕｃｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ               ｂｙ               ｓｅｖｅｒａｌ               ｐｏｓｔｓ               ｏｎ               ａ               ｓｏｃｉａｌ               ｎｅｔｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ               ｓｉｔｅ,               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｈｅａｒｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｏ               ｍａｎｙ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               "ｈｏｏｋｅｄ"               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｗｈａｔ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｍｍｏｔｉｏｎ               ｗａｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ. Ｉ               ｐｕｒｃｈａｓｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒｉｌｏｇｙ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｉｎｃｌｕｄｅｓ               "Ｆｉｆｔｙ               Ｓｈａｄｅｓ               ｏｆ               Ｇｒｅｙ,"               "Ｆｉｆｔｙ               Ｓｈａｄｅｓ               Ｄａｒｋｅｒ"               ａｎｄ               "Ｆｉｆｔｙ               Ｓｈａｄｅｓ               Ｆｒｅｅｄ."               Ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｍｅｎｔ               Ｉ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｒｅａｄｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｅｎｔｈｒａｌｌｅｄ,               ｗｈａｔ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ａｓ,               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｃａｌｌ               ａ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｒｏｍａｎｃｅ               ｓｏｏｎ               ｔｏｏｋ               ａ               ｔｕｒｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｒｋｅｒ               ｓｉｄｅ. Ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｏｋｓ               ａｒｅ               ｐａｇｅ               ｔｕｒｎｅｒｓ               ｔｏ               ｓａｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅａｓｔ               Ｉ               ｒｅａｄ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｂｏｏｋｓ               ｉｎ               ｆｏｕｒ               ｄａｙｓ.                Ｎｏｔ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               ｔｈｅ               "Ｔｗｉｌｉｇｈｔ"               Ｓｅｒｉｅｓ               ｂｙ               Ｓｔｅｐｈｅｎｉｅ               Ｍｅｙｅｒ               ｈａｖｅ               Ｉ               ｓｅｅｎ               ｓｕｃｈ               ａ               ｆａｎａｔｉｃａｌ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｉｎｇ. Ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｏｐｉｎｉｏｎ,               Ｆｉｆｔｙ               Ｓｈａｄｅｓ               ｉｓ               ｆｏｒ               ａｄｕｌｔｓ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｔｗｉｌｉｇｈｔ               ｗａｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｇｉｒｌｓ,               ａ               ｌｏｏｋ               ａｔ               ｗｈａｔ               ｗｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｗｉｓｈ               ｏｕｒ               ｌｉｖｅｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｌｉｋｅ,               ｆｕｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｒｏｍａｎｃｅ,               ｓｕｓｐｅｎｓｅ,               ｌｕｘｕｒｙ               ａｎｄ               ｕｎｂｒｉｄｌｅｄ               ｐａｓｓｉｏｎ.                Ｅｖｅｎ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｆｉｎｉｓｈｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｏｋｓ               Ｉ               ｌｏｎｇｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｏｒｅ. Ｉ               ｐｕｒｃｈａｓｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｄｏｗｎｌｏａｄｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｕｓｉｃ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｏｋ,               ａｓ               ｗｅｌｌ               ａｓ               ｔｒｉｂｕｔｅ               ａｌｂｕｍｓ. Ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｗｅｓｔ               ｂｕｚｚ               ｉｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｕｐｃｏｍｉｎｇ               ｆｉｌｍ               ｂａｓｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｏｋｓ. Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ａｓｓｕｒｅ               ｙｏｕ               Ｉ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｂｅ               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｌｏｃａｌ               ｔｈｅａｔｅｒ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｍａｋｅｓ               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｄｅｂｕｔ.                Ｍｙ               ｐｅｒｓｏｎａｌ               ｐｌｅａ               ｔｏ               ａｕｔｈｏｒ               Ｅ.Ｌ. Ｊａｍｅｓ               ｉｓ               ｔｏ               ｋｅｅｐ               ｕｐ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒｅａｔ               ｗｏｒｋ               ａｎｄ               ｇｉｖｅ               ｕｓ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ. Ｉ               ｅａｇｅｒｌｙ               ａｗａｉｔ               ａ               ｎｅｗ               ｃａｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒｓ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ｌｏｓｔ               ｉｎ,               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎ               Ｇｒｅｙ               ａｎｄ               Ａｎａｓｔａｓｉａ               Ｓｔｅｅｌｅ.

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Fifty Shades Darker Free Download Fifty Shades Darker Wikipedia Fifty Shades of Grey Movie Trailer Fifty Shades Darker PDF Fifty Shades of Grey Movie Fifty Shades of Freed Fifty Shades of Grey Movie Release Date Fifty Shades Darker

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About 'trilogy like 50 shades'|50 Shades Later…

About 'trilogy like 50 shades'|50 Shades Later…

Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ:               Ｔｈｅ               Ｔｒｉｌｏｇｙ               (Ｐａｒｔ               1)               Ｗｈｙ               ｏｎ               Ｇｏｄ'ｓ               ｇｒｅｅｎ               ｅａｒｔｈ               ａｒｅ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｎｏ               ｓｏｎｇｓ               ｄｅｄｉｃａｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｍｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｅ               ｐｕｒｓｕｉｔ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ?! Ｔｈｅ               ｓｅａｒｃｈ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｍａｎ               ｉｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｕｆｆ               ｏｆ               ｌｅｇｅｎｄ               ａｎｄ               ｓｏｎｇ. Ｗｏｍｅｎ               ｋｖｅｔｃｈ               ｉｎ               ｂａｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ｂｅａｕｔｙ               ｓａｌｏｎｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｏｇｓ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｋｉｓｓｅｄ               ｔｒｙｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｒｉｎｃｅ               ｈｉｄｄｅｎ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ. Ｍａｎｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｒｔｓ               ｔｏ               ｐｒｏｖｅ               ｉｔ. Ｂｕｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｉｌｌｉｏｎｓ               ｏｆ               ｗｏｍｅｎ,               ａ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ               ｔｒｕｍｐｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｒｄｓｈｉｐｓ               ｏｆ               ｆｉｎｄｉｎｇ               ａ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｍａｎ! Ｓｕｒｅ,               ｗｅ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｅｎｅｒａｌ               ｈａｎｇｏｕｔｓ. Ａｎｄ               ｗｅ               ｈａｖｅ               ｒｅｃｏｍｍｅｎｄａｔｉｏｎｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｒｕｓｔｅｄ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ. Ｂｕｔ               ｕｎｌｉｋｅ               ｄａｔｉｎｇ               ａ               ｇｕｙ,               ｙｏｕ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               "ｊｕｍｐ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｂｅｄ"               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｉｆ               ｙｏｕ'ｖｅ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ａ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｍａｔｃｈ. Ｇｏ               ｏｕｔ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｍａｎ               ａｎｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｇｅｔ               ａ               ｆｅｅｌ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｏｗ               ｈｅ               ｍａｙ               ａｃｔ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｒｅｌａｔｉｏｎｓｈｉｐ. Ｎｏｔ               ａｌｗａｙｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｄａｔｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｐｒｅｔｔｙ               ｗｅｌｌ               ｉｆ               ｈｅ'ｓ               ａ               ｃｏｎｔｒｏｌ               ｆｒｅａｋ,               ａ               ｂｒａｇｇａｒｔ,               ａ               ｓｔｉｎｇｅ,               ａ               ｒｏｍａｎｔｉｃ               ｏｒ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｔｏｏ               ｎｅｅｄｙ. Ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｎａｌ               ｐｈａｓｅ               ｃａｎ               ｂｅ               ｄｅｌａｙｅｄ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ｒｅａｄｙ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｆ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｇｕｙ               ｈａｓ               ｒｅａｌ               ｐｏｔｅｎｔｉａｌ               ａｓ               ａ               ｍａｔｅ,               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｄｒｏｏｍ               ｉｓ               ｌｅｓｓ               ｌｉｋｅｌｙ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ａ               ｄｅａｌ-ｂｒｅａｋｅｒ. Ａｎｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｃａｎ               ａｌｌｏｗ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｌｅｅｗａｙ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅａｒｎｉｎｇ               ｃｕｒｖｅ!                Ｎｏｔ               ｓｏ               ａ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ. Ｓａｙ               ｙｏｕ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｈｅ               ａｍｂｉａｎｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｌｏｎ. Ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｓｔ               ｉｓ               ｒｉｇｈｔ. Ｙｏｕ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｐｅｒｓｏｎ               ｐｌｅａｓａｎｔ               ａｎｄ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｎｅｅｄｓ. Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｃｌｏｓｅ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ｓｗｅａｒ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ               ｉｓ               Ｇｏｄ'ｓ               ｇｉｆｔ               ｔｏ               ｗｏｍｅｎ. Ｂｕｔ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｙｏｕ               ｐｕｔ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｔｒｕｓｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｐｏｗｅｒｆｕｌ               ｈａｎｄｓ               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｍｍｉｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ,               ｙｏｕ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｓｑｕａｔ,               ｓｉｓｔｅｒ! Ｉ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｗｈｅｒｅｏｆ               Ｉ               ｓｐｅａｋ.                Ｒｅｃｅｎｔｌｙ               Ｉ               ｒｅｃｅｉｖｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｈｉｒｄ               Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ. Ｉｔ               ｇｏｔ               ｍｅ               ａｌｌ               ｗｏｒｋｅｄ               ｕｐ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｉｓｓｕｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ｗｈｏ               ｃａｎ               ｗｅ               ｔｒｕｓｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｈｏｗ               ｍａｎｙ               ｗｏｍｅｎ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｒａｕｍａｔｉｚｅｄ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｎｄｓ               ｏｆ               ｐｒｏｆｅｓｓｉｏｎａｌｓ? Ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｗｏｍａｎ               Ｉ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｈａｓ               Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ               ｓｔｏｒｉｅｓ. Ｉｔ               ｏｆｔｅｎ               ｓｔａｒｔｓ               ｉｎ               ｃｈｉｌｄｈｏｏｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｏｔｈｅｒｓ               ｗｈｏ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｃｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｎｇｓ               ｔｏｏ               ｓｈｏｒｔ. Ｔｈｏｕｇｈ,               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｇｒｏｗｉｎｇ               ｕｐ,               ｔｈｅｙ               ｒｅｖｏｌｕｔｉｏｎｉｚｅｄ               ｈａｉｒｓｔｙｌｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               Ｔｏｎｉ               Ｈｏｍｅ               Ｐｅｒｍ. Ｏｈ,               Ｇｏｄ. Ｉ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｎｏｘｉｏｕｓ               ｆｕｍｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｒｄ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｃｕｒｌｅｒｓ. Ｆｏｌｌｏｗｅｄ               ｂｙ               ａ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｐｅｒｉｏｄ               ｏｆ               ｏｖｅｒｌｙ-ｔｉｇｈｔ               ｈａｉｒ               ｔｈａｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｂａｒｅｌｙ               ｇｅｔ               ａ               ｃｏｍｂ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ,               ａｎｄ               ａｄｕｌｔｓ               ｏｏｚｉｎｇ,               "Ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｗｏｒｒｙ. Ｉｔ'ｌｌ               ｌｏｏｓｅｎ               ｕｐ               ｓｏｏｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｙｏｕ'ｌｌ               ｌｏｏｋ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｐｒｅｔｔｙ!"               Ｇｅｅ,               ｍｙ               ｍｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｐｒｅｔｔｙ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｓｈｅ               ｇａｖｅ               ｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈｉｄｅｏｕｓ               ｐｅｒｍ.                Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ               Ｉ                Ｍｙ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｒｅａｌ               Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ               ｈｏｌｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｔｌｅ               ｏｆ               #1               Ｗｏｒｓｔ               Ｅｖｅｒ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｄｒｅａｒｙ               ｗｉｎｔｅｒ               ｄａｙ               ｉｎ               1982. Ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｆｔｈ               ｍｏｎｔｈ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｆｉｆｔｈ               ｐｒｅｇｎａｎｃｙ. Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ａ               ｐｉｃｋ-ｍｅ-ｕｐ. Ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ｎｏ               ｆａｖｏｒｉｔｅ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ               ｙｅｔ,               Ｉ               ｖｅｎｔｕｒｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               ｓａｌｏｎ               ａｔ               Ｌａｚａｒｕｓ,               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｗｅ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｃｈａｒｇｅ               ｃａｒｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ａ               ｓａｌｅ               ｏｎ               ｐｅｒｍｓ. Ｂｉｇ               ｈａｉｒ               ｗａｓ               ｉｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｕｎｌｉｋｅ               ｍｙ               ｓｉｓｔｅｒ'ｓ,               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ               ｗａｓ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｂｉｇ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｈｅｌｐ. Ｃｏｎｆｉｄｅｎｔ               ａｎｄ               ｈｏｐｅｆｕｌ,               Ｉ               ｐｏｉｎｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｐｉｃｔｕｒｅ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｓｌｕｔｔｙ               ｍｏｄｅｌ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｂｌａｃｋ               ｈａｉｒ               ａｎｄ               Ｂｒｏｏｋｅ               Ｓｈｉｅｌｄｓ               ｅｙｅｂｒｏｗｓ               ａｎｄ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｉｆ               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｐｏｏｆ               ｏｕｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｐｅｒｍ. Ｎｏ               ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍ,               ｓｈｅ               ａｓｓｕｒｅｄ               ｍｅ. Ｔｗｏ               ｈｏｕｒｓ               ｌａｔｅｒ               Ｉ               ｅｍｅｒｇｅｄ               ｒｅｓｅｍｂｌｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｒｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               Ｆｒａｎｋｅｎｓｔｅｉｎ,               ｍｉｎｕｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｈｉｔｅ               ｓｔｒｅａｋ. Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｇｏｎｅ               ｉｎ               ａｎｄ               ｓａｉｄ,               "Ｃａｎ               ｙｏｕ               ｍａｋｅ               ｍｅ               ｌｏｏｋ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈｏｔ               ｗｅｎｃｈ               ｗｈｏ               ｍａｒｒｉｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               Ｆｒａｎｋｅｎｓｔｅｉｎ               Ｍｏｎｓｔｅｒ?"               Ｙｅｔ               ｓｏｍｅｈｏｗ               ｍｙ               ｓｔｙｌｉｓｔ               ｍｕｓｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ｉｎｔｅｒｐｒｅｔｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｒｅｑｕｅｓｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｙ. Ｓｔｒａｎｇｅｒｓ               ｓｉｄｌｅｄ               ａｗａｙ,               ｆｅａｒｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｍａｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｅｓｃａｐｅｄ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ａｎ               ａｇｇｒｅｓｓｉｖｅ               ｒｏｕｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｓｈｏｃｋ               ｔｈｅｒａｐｙ. Ｍｙ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ａｎｄ               ｆａｍｉｌｙ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｌｏｏｋ               ａｔ               ｍｅ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｃｈｏｋｉｎｇ               ｂａｃｋ               ｌａｕｇｈｔｅｒ. Ｆｏｌｌｏｗｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｌａｍｅ               ａｐｏｌｏｇｉｅｓ,               "Ｉ'ｍ               ｓｏｒｒｙ... (ｓｎｉｃｋｅｒ).... Ｉｔ'ｓ               ｎｏｔ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｔｈａｔ               ｂａｄ."               (ｓｕｐｐｒｅｓｓｅｄ               ｇｉｇｇｌｅｓ)               Ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｐｉｃｋ               ｕｐ               ｍｙ               ｈｕｓｂａｎｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｂ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｈｅ               ｗｏｒｋｅｄ,               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｃｏ-ｗｏｒｋｅｒｓ               ｌａｔｅｒ               ａｓｋｅｄ,               "Ｓｏ,               Ｄｏｕｇ... ｙｏｕｒ               ｗｉｆｅ               ｓｔｉｃｋ               ｈｅｒ               ｆｉｎｇｅｒ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｌｉｇｈｔ               ｓｏｃｋｅｔ?"               Ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｓｃｉｅｎｃｅ               ｇｅｅｋｓ               ａｒｅｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｓｕａｖｅ               ｓｏｃｉａｌ               ｓｋｉｌｌｓ. Ｏｎｌｙ               ｍｙ               ｓｉｓｓｙ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏｔａｌｌｙ               ｓｙｍｐａｔｈｅｔｉｃ,               "Ｙｏｕ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄ               ｓｕｅ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ａｓｓｅｓ!"               Ｓｈｅ               ｈａｓ               ａｎｇｅｒ               ｉｓｓｕｅｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒｓ. Ｗｅｅｋｓ               ｌａｔｅｒ,               ｗｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ｃａｌｍｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ａｎｄ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｉｔｓ               ｏｗｎ               ｃｏｌｏｒ,               ｍｙ               ｐｉｃｔｕｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｔａｋｅｎ               ａｔ               ｏｕｒ               ｄａｕｇｈｔｅｒ'ｓ               ｆｉｆｔｈ               ｂｉｒｔｈｄａｙ               ｐａｒｔｙ. Ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｄｏ               ｈａｖｅ               ｐｈｏｔｏｇｒａｐｈｉｃ               ｅｖｉｄｅｎｃｅ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｓｕｓｐｅｃｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔａｔｕｔｅ               ｏｆ               ｌｉｍｉｔａｔｉｏｎｓ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｌａｗｓｕｉｔ               ｈａｓ               ｅｘｐｉｒｅｄ               ｏｎ               Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ               Ｉ.                Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ:               Ｔｈｅ               Ｔｒｉｌｏｇｙ               (Ｐａｒｔ               2)                Ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｗｈｏｌｅ               ｌｉｆｅ               Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｈａｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｗｏ               ｔｏ               ｗｈｏｍ               Ｉ               ｃｏｍｍｉｔｔｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｒｔ               ａｎｄ               ｈａｉｒ. Ｉｔ'ｓ               ａ               ｓｃａｒｙ               ｗｏｒｌｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｙｏｕ               ｂｏｕｎｃｅ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｏｎｅ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ,               ｗｏｎｄｅｒｉｎｇ               ｉｆ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｍａｙ               ｂｅ               Ｔｈｅ               Ｏｎｅ,               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｋｎｏｗｉｎｇ               ｗｈｏ               ｔｏ               ｔｒｕｓｔ,               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｋｎｏｗｉｎｇ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｙｏｕ'ｌｌ               ｇｅｔ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｃｕｔ.                Ｉ'ｌｌ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｆｏｒｇｅｔ               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ               (ｎｏｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｒｅａｌ               ｎａｍｅ). Ａ               ｓｗｅｅｔ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｇｕｙ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｓｏｆｔ               ｈａｎｄｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｏｆｔ               ｖｏｉｃｅ               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｂｉｔｉｎｇ               ｋｉｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｈｕｍｏｒ. Ｗｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔｏｇｅｔｈｅｒ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｄ-80'ｓ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｅａｒｌｙ               90'ｓ. Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｌｉｓｔｅｎ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｗｏｅｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｈｅ               ｓｈａｒｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｏｗｎ               ｆｕｔｉｌｅ               ｓｅａｒｃｈ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｍａｎ. Ｉ               ａｄｖｉｓｅｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｔｒｉｐ               ｂａｒｓ               (ｇａｙ               ｏｒ               ｓｔｒａｉｇｈｔ)               ｍａｙ               ｎｏｔ               ｂｒｉｎｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｓｔ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｇｕｙ,               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄ               ｃｏｎｓｉｄｅｒ               ｗｉｄｅｎｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｅａｒｃｈ               ａｒｅａ. Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ               ｗａｓ               ａｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗ               ｍｙ               ｄｅｓｃｒｉｐｔｉｏｎｓ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｃａｍｅ               ｉｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｒｅｆｅｒｅｎｃｅｓ               ｌｉｋｅ,               "Ｉ               ｗａｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈａｔ               ｃｕｔｅ               ｈａｉｒｓｔｙｌｅ               Ｈｏｌｌｙ               Ｈｕｎｔｅｒ               ｗｏｒｅ               ｉｎ               "Ｂｒｏａｄｃａｓｔ               Ｎｅｗｓ". Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｍｅ               ｉｆ               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏｏ               ｔｈｉｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｓｔｙｌｅ               ｏｒ               ｉｆ               ｉｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｍａｋｅ               ｍｙ               ｆａｃｅ               ｌｏｏｋ               ｆａｔ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｎ               ｈｏｎｅｓｔｙ               Ｉ               ｒｅｌｉｅｄ               ｏｎ.                Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ               ＩＩ                Ｏｎｅ               ｄａｙ               Ｉ               ｅｎｔｅｒｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｏｐ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｄｅｅｐ               ｆｕｎｋ. Ｋｉｄ               ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍｓ,               ｈｅａｌｔｈ               ｉｓｓｕｅｓ,               ｎｏｔ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｓｅｘ,               ｄｏｇ               ｍｅｓｓｅｓ,               ｙａｄｄａｙａｄｄａｙａｄｄａ...ａｌｌ               ｈａｄ               ｍｅ               ｗｏｒｎ               ｄｏｗｎ               ａｎｄ               ｖｕｌｎｅｒａｂｌｅ. Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｓｅｅ               ｍｙ               ｍｉｓｅｒｙ               ａｎｄ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｈｏｗ               ｈｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｈｅｌｐ. Ａｔ               ｌａｓｔ,               ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ               ｗｈｏ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ               ｄｏ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ. Ａ               ｐｅｒｋｙ               ｎｅｗ               ｌｏｏｋ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ               ａ               ｗｏｎｄｅｒｆｕｌ               ｍｏｒａｌｅ               ｂｏｏｓｔｅｒ. Ｉ'ｄ               ｓｅｅ               ａ               ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｒｒｏｒ,               ｃｏｎｆｉｄｅｎｔ,               ｉｎ               ｃｏｎｔｒｏｌ               ｏｆ               ｈｅｒ               ｌｉｆｅ,               ａｔｔｒａｃｔｉｖｅ               ｅｖｅｎ! Ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｐｕｔ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｈａｎｄｓ. Ｉ               ｕｔｔｅｒｅｄ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｆａｔｅｆｕｌ               ｗｏｒｄｓ,               "Ｊｕｓｔ               ｄｏ               ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ               ｙｏｕ               ｗａｎｔ. Ｉ'ｍ               ｒｅａｄｙ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｎｅｗ               ｌｏｏｋ."               Ｄｏ               ｎｏｔ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｓａｙ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｗｏｒｄｓ               ｔｏ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ!!!! Ｉ               ｂｅｇ               ｏｆ               ｙｏｕ! Ｙｏｕ               ｍａｙ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｙｏｕ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｈｉｍ               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｋｎｏｗｓ               ｙｏｕ. Ｂｕｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｄｏ               ｎｏｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｗｈａｔ               ｃｒｅａｔｉｖｅ               ｉｄｅａｓ               ｍａｙ               ｌｕｒｋ               ｉｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｍｉｎｄ! Ａｎｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｗａｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｌａｎｋ               ｃａｎｖａｓ               ｏｎ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｔｈｅｙ'ｌｌ               ｂｅ               ｒｅｌｅａｓｅｄ!                Ｈｉｓ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏ               ｍａｋｅ               ｍｙ               ｄａｒｋ               ｈａｉｒ               ａ               ｓｈａｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｂｕｒｇｕｎｄｙ. Ｎｏｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｈａｖｅｎ'ｔ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｉｍｅｓ               Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｔｏ               ｅｘｐｅｒｉｍｅｎｔａｔｉｏｎ. Ｂｕｔ               ａｓ               ａ               ｆｏｒｔｙ-ｉｓｈ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｗｈｏ               ｒａｎ               ｈｅｒ               ｏｗｎ               ｄａｙ               ｃａｒｅ               ｈｏｍｅ,               Ｉ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｉｎｇ               ｗａｓ               ｏｆｆ. Ｂａｄ               ｃａｒｅｅｒ               ｍｏｖｅ. Ｍａｙｂｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｉｄｅａ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｐｕｔ               ｍｅ               ｏｎ               ａｌｅｒｔ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｓａｎｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               ｃｏｍｆｏｒｔａｂｌｅ               ｈａｚｅ               ｌｉｓｔｅｎｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ'ｓ               ｈｏｍｅ               ｄｅｃｏｒａｔｉｎｇ               ｐｌａｎｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｉｓ               ｎｅｗ               ｈｏｕｓｅ               ａｎｄ               ｅｎｖｙｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｒｅｅｄｏｍ               ｔｏ               ｍａｋｅ               ｃｈｏｉｃｅｓ.                Ｉｔ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ               ｎｏｔｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｏｃｃｕｒｒｅｄ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｃａｔａｒａｃｔ               ｓｕｒｇｅｒｙ,               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｔｒａｄｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｍｙｏｐｉｃ               ｌｅｎｓｅｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｏｎｅｓ. Ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｓａｔ               ｉｎ               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ'ｓ               ｓａｌｏｎ               ｃｈａｉｒ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               ｇｌａｓｓｅｓ               ｏｆｆ,               ｍｙ               ｖｉｓｉｏｎ               ｅｘｔｅｎｄｅｄ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｓｉｘ               ｉｎｃｈｅｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｙ               ｆａｃｅ. Ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｒｒｏｒ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｂｌｕｒ               ｏｆ               ｌｉｇｈｔｓ               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｌｏｒｓ. Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｆｅｅｌ               ｍｙ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ-ｌｅｎｇｔｈ               ｈａｉｒ               ｆａｌｌｉｎｇ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｍｅ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ｐｓｙｃｈｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｗ               ｌｏｏｋ. Ａｆｔｅｒ               ａｌｌ,               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｍｙ               ｃａｒｄｉｎａｌ               ｒｕｌｅ:               Ｎｏ               Ｓｈｏｒｔ               Ｂａｎｇｓ! Ｉ               ｌｉｋｅｄ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｆｒｉｎｇｙ               ａｎｄ               ｔｏｕｃｈｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｅｙｅｂｒｏｗｓ. Ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔ               ｗａｓ               ｕｐ               ｆｏｒ               ｇｒａｂｓ. Ｏｒ               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｉｎｎｏｃｅｎｃｅ.                Ｍｙ               ｍｏｏｄ               ｗａｓ               ｉｍｐｒｏｖｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｅａｃｈ               ｓｎｉｐ,               ａｉｄｅｄ               ｂｙ               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ'ｓ               ｃｈｅｅｒｆｕｌ               ｄｅｍｅａｎｏｒ. (Ｏｆ               ｃｏｕｒｓｅ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｃｈｅｅｒｆｕｌ... ａ               ｃｌｉｅｎｔ               ｗｈｏ               ｇｉｖｅｓ               ｃａｒｔｅ               ｂｌａｎｃｈｅ               ｉｓ               ａ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ'ｓ               ｗｅｔ               ｄｒｅａｍ!)               Ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ               ｗｈｉｐｐｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｒａｐｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｙ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ｈａｎｄｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｍｙ               ｇｌａｓｓｅｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｂｉｇ               Ｔａ-ＤＡ,               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｇｈｔｓ               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｌｏｒｓ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｒｒｏｒ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｏｎ               ｓｈａｐｅ. Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｍｙ               ｏｗｎ               ｆａｃｅ               ｆａｌｌ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｇｌｅｅｆｕｌ               ａｎｔｉｃｉｐａｔｉｏｎ               ｔｏ               ｈｏｒｒｏｒ. Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ｂａｒｅｌｙ               ｄｅｓｃｒｉｂｅ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｒｏａｄ               ｋｉｌｌ. Ｔｏｔａｌｌｙ               ａｓｙｍｍｅｔｒｉｃ. Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｎｏ               ｏｆｆｅｎｓｅ               ｉｎ               ｉｔｓｅｌｆ. Ｂｕｔ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｓｐｉｋｙ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｉｒｒｅｇｕｌａｒ-ｌｅｎｇｔｈ               ｈａｉｒｓ               ｐｏｋｅｄ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｗａｙ               ｏｎ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｉｄｅ,               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｍｉｓｈ-ｍａｓｈ               ｏｆ               ｏｄｄｌｙ               ａｒｒａｎｇｅｄ               ｌｅｎｇｔｈｓ               ｄａｎｇｌｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ａｒｇｕｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｓｐａｃｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ,               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ａ               ｔｈｉｎ               ｓｔｒａｎｄ               ｃａｍｅ               ｔｏ               ａｎ               ａｎｇｌｅｄ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｏｎ               ｏｎｅ               ｃｈｅｅｋ! Ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｍｙ               ｂａｎｇｓ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｓｔｏｏｄ               ａ               ｓｐｉｋｙ               ｃｒｅｗｃｕｔ. Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｓｅｅｎ               ｔｈｒｅｅ-ｙｅａｒ               ｏｌｄｓ               ｔａｋｅ               ｓｃｉｓｓｏｒｓ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅｍｓｅｌｖｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｅｎｄ               ｕｐ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｓｔｙｌｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｍａｄｅ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｓｅｎｓｅ!                "Ｂｒｅａｔｈｅ. Ｂｒｅａｔｈｅ. Ｏｈ... Ｍｙ...Ｇｏｄ!"               Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｗｈａｔ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｍｙ               ｍｉｎｄ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｍ               ｂｕｒｓｔ. Ｎｏｔ               ｓｉｌｅｎｔ               ｅｍｂａｒｒａｓｓｅｄ               ｈｉｄｄｅｎ               ｔｅａｒｓ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏ               ｈｏｌｄｉｎｇ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｆｌｏｏｄ               ｂａｃｋ. Ｉ               ｃｒｉｅｄ               ｏｐｅｎｌｙ               ａｎｄ               ｈａｒｄ. Ａｔ               ｌｅａｓｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｏｐ               ｈａｄ               ｅｍｐｔｉｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅｎ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｍａｄｅ               ｎｏ               ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｃｅ. Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｓｏｂｂｉｎｇ               ｗｏｒｄｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｗａｎｔｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｌｏｏｋ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｓｏ               ｗｏｒｎ               ｏｕｔ               ａｎｄ               ｎｏｗ...ｔｈｉｓ. Ｐｏｏｒ               ｃｏｎｆｕｓｅｄ               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ. Ｈｅ               ｌａｙ               ｈｉｓ               ｈａｎｄ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｂｒｏｗｎ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｓｏｆｔｅｎｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｅｍｐａｔｈｅｔｉｃ               ｓａｄｎｅｓｓ. Ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｅｎｔｌｅｓｔ               ｔｏｎｅ,               ｈｅ               ｃｒｏｏｎｅｄ,               "Ｈｏｎ... Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｍｅａｎ               ｔｏ               ｐｒｙ... ｂｕｔ               ａｒｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｏｎ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｐｅｒｉｏｄ?"               Ａａａａａｒｒｒｇｇｈｈｈ!                Ｉ               ｃｈａｎｔｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂａｄ               Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               Ｍａｎｔｒａ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｙ               ｈｏｍｅ,               "Ｉｔ'ｌｌ               ｇｒｏｗ               ｂａｃｋ.Ｉｔ'ｌｌ               ｇｒｏｗ               ｂａｃｋ.Ｉｔ'ｌｌ               ｇｒｏｗ               ｂａｃｋ."               Ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｍｏｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ｈｏｕｓｅ               ｔｏ               ｐｌｅａｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｅｌｐ,               ｓｈｅ               ｓｔｏｏｄ               ｄｕｍｂｆｏｕｎｄｅｄ,               ｓｔｕｄｙｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈａｌｌｅｎｇｅ. Ｗｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｂｏｔｈ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｓｉｓｔｅｒ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎｉｎｇ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｅｒ               ｓｔｙｌｉｓｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｅａｒｓ. Ｓｈｅ,               ｔｏｏ,               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｅｎｔｅｒ               ｆｕｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｈｏｐｅ               ａｎｄ               ａｎｔｉｃｉｐａｔｉｏｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｗｉｌｄ               ｍａｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｈａｉｒ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｔａｍｅｄ,               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｏ               ｌｅａｖｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｂｌｏｎｄｅ               Ａｆｒｏ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｎｖｉｃｔｉｏｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｉｓ               ｉｎｄｅｅｄ               ａ               ｓｅｃｒｅｔ               ｃｏｄｅ               ａｍｏｎｇ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｔａｔｅｓ,               "Ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｕｓｔｏｍｅｒ               ａｓｋｓ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ,               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｗｒｏｎｇ. Ｃｕｓｔｏｍｅｒｓ               ａｒｅ               ｂａｓｉｃａｌｌｙ               ｉｄｉｏｔｓ               ｗｈｏ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｗｈａｔ'ｓ               ｂｅｓｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅｍ. Ｓｏ               ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｙｏｕ,               ｉｇｎｏｒｅ               ｉｔ               ａｎｄ               ｇｏ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｙｏｕ'ｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｄｙｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｔｒｙ. Ｉｆ               ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｅ,               ｔａｋｅ               ｓｅｃｒｅｔ               ｐｈｏｔｏｓ,               ｓｏ               ｗｅ               ｃａｎ               ａｌｌ               ｈａｖｅ               ａ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｌａｕｇｈ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｃｏｎｖｅｎｔｉｏｎ."               Ｉ               ｎｏｗ               ａｃｃｅｐｔｅｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｐｒｅｍｉｓｅ.                Ｍｏｍ               ｈａｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｏｌｕｔｉｏｎ,               "Ｗｅｌｌ,               Ａｌｌｅｎｅ,               ａｌｌ               Ｉ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｉｓ               ｃｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｅｖｅｎｌｙ               ａｌｌ               ｏｖｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｇｉｖｅ               ｙｏｕ               ａ               ｈｏｍｅ               ｐｅｒｍ."               Ｏｈ,               Ｇｏｄ,               ｎｏｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｌｄ               Ｔｏｎｉ               ｈｏｍｅ               ｐｅｒｍ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｙ               ｃｈｉｌｄｈｏｏｄ! Ｉｔ               ｍａｄｅ               ｍｅ               ｓｈｕｄｄｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｃａｌｌ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｔｉｇｈｔ               ｈａｉｒｄｏｓ               ｔｏ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｇｉｒｌ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               50'ｓ               ｇｏｔ               ｓｕｂｊｅｃｔｅｄ. Ｂｕｔ               ｗｈａｔ               ｒｅｃｏｕｒｓｅ               ｄｉｄ               Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ? Ｓｋｉｎｈｅａｄ               ｉｓｎ'ｔ               ｍｙ               ｌｏｏｋ. Ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｇａｖｅ               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ               ｏｎｃｅ               ａｇａｉｎ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｍｏｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ｈａｎｄｓ. Ｓｈｅ               ｄｉｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｌｅｖｅｌ               ｂｅｓｔ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｎｏ               ｌｏｎｇｅｒ               ｒｅｓｅｍｂｌｅｄ               ａｎ               ａｇｉｎｇ               ｐｕｎｋ               ｗｈｏ'ｄ               ｐｕｌｌｅｄ               ａｎ               Ｅｄｗａｒｄ               Ｓｃｉｓｓｏｒｈａｎｄｓ               ｏｎ               ｈｅｒ               ｏｗｎ               ｈｅａｄ               ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ａ               ｂａｄ               ｔｒｉｐ. Ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｆｅｗ               ｗｅｅｋｓ               Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｏｌｄ               ｐｉｃｔｕｒｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               1930'ｓ               ｓｃｈｏｏｌｍａｒｍ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｉｇｈｔ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｐｉｎｃｕｒｌｓ               ｐｌａｓｔｅｒｅｄ               ａｇａｉｎｓｔ               ｈｅｒ               ｈｅａｄ               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｌｏｏｋ               ｏｆ               ｃｏｎｓｔｉｐａｔｉｏｎ               ｏｎ               ｈｅｒ               ｆａｃｅ. Ｉ               ｃｏｕｎｔ               ｔｈｅ               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ-Ｄｏ               ａｓ               Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ               ＩＩ. (Ｍｏｍ'ｓ               Ｔｏｎｉ               Ｓｏｌｕｔｉｏｎ               ｗａｓ               ａｎ               ｉｍｐｒｏｖｅｍｅｎｔ,               ｏｒ               ｉｔ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｖｉｅ               ｆｏｒ               ＩＩＩ.)                Ａｎｄ               ｙｅｓ,               Ｉ               ｓｔｕｃｋ               ｗｉｔｈ               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｈｅ               ｍｏｖｅｄ               ａｗａｙ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｍｙ               ｇｌａｓｓｅｓ               ｏｎ               ｗｈｅｎｅｖｅｒ               ｈｅ               ｃｕｔ               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ! Ｂｅｓｉｄｅｓ               ｈａｉｒ,               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ               ｈａｄ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｖａｌｕａｂｌｅ               ｓｋｉｌｌｓ. Ｆｏｒ               ｍｙ               ｓｉｓｔｅｒ'ｓ               ｎａｕｇｈｔｙ               ｂｒｉｄａｌ               ｓｈｏｗｅｒ,               ｗｅ               ｈｉｒｅｄ               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｒｉｐｐｅｒ. Ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｓｕｐｅｒｂ! Ｗｈｏ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｈｉｓ               ｔｉｍｅ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｒｉｐ               ｂａｒｓ               ｈａｄ               ｐｒａｃｔｉｃａｌ               ａｐｐｌｉｃａｔｉｏｎ? Ａｆｔｅｒ               ｗａｔｃｈｉｎｇ               ｈｉｍ               ｓｈａｋｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｉｎｅ               ｂｏｏｔｙ,               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｆｏｒｇｉｖｅ               ｈｉｓ               Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ!                Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ:               Ｔｈｅ               Ｔｒｉｌｏｇｙ               (Ｔｈｅ               Ｆｉｎａｌ               Ｃｕｔ)                Ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｄｅｒｒｉｃｋ               ａｂａｎｄｏｎｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｄ-90'ｓ,               Ｉ               ｗａｎｄｅｒｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｄｉｒｅｃｔｉｏｎ               ａｇａｉｎ,               ｂｏｕｎｃｉｎｇ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｏｎｅ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ'ｓ               ｃｈａｉｒ               ｔｏ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ. Ｉ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｎｅｅｄｌｅｓｓ               ｒｉｓｋｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｐｅｒｍｓ,               ｕｎｆｌａｔｔｅｒｉｎｇ               ｌｅｎｇｔｈｓ               ａｎｄ               ｕｎｎａｔｕｒａｌ               ｓｈａｄｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｒｅｄ. Ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｏｎｅ               ｄａｙ               Ｉ               ｎｏｔｉｃｅｄ               ｓｉｇｎｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｉｎｎｉｎｇ               ｈａｉｒ,               ｅｓｐｅｃｉａｌｌｙ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｒｏｗｎ. Ｇｏｄ               ｈｅｌｐ               ｍｅ,               ｎｏｔ               ｍａｌｅ-ｐａｔｔｅｒｎ               ｂａｌｄｎｅｓｓ!! Ａｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｐｉｖｏｔａｌ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ'ｓ               ｌｉｆｅ,               ｉｔ               ｆｅｌｌ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｂｅｎｉｇｎ               ｎｅｇｌｅｃｔ. Ｉ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｌｅｔ               ｉｔ               ｇｒｏｗ               ｌｏｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ｒｅｓｏｒｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｌｄ               ｂｕｎ               ｏｎ               ｔｏｐ. Ｎｏｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｇｈｔｌｙ               ｃｏｎｔｒｏｌｌｅｄ               ｂａｌｌｅｔ               ｂｕｎ,               ｂｕｔ               ａ               ｓｌｅａｚｉｅｒ               ｔｏｐ-ｋｎｏｔ               ｃｏｕｓｉｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｄａｎｇｌｉｎｇ               ｓｔｒａｎｄｓ               ａｎｄ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｆｒｉｎｇｅｄ               ｂａｎｇｓ. Ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｆｉｎｅ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｆａｋｅ               ｉｔ               ａｎｙｍｏｒｅ. Ｓｏ               ｃｏｍｍｅｎｃｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｔ               ｐｈａｓｅ. Ｍｏｓｔ               ｄａｙｓ               Ｉ               ｗｏｒｅ               ａ               ｂｅｒｅｔ               (ａｓ               ｓｅｅｎ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ＡＣ               ｐｈｏｔｏ). Ｍｙ               ｃｏｌｌｅｃｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｂｅｒｅｔｓ               ｒｉｖａｌｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｌｏｒｓ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｆｌｏｒａｌ               ｂｏｕｑｕｅｔ. Ｉｎ               ｓｕｍｍｅｒ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｂｒｉｍｍｅｄ               ｃｏｔｔｏｎ               ｈａｔｓ               ａｎｄ               ｆｌｏｗｅｒｙ               ｓｔｒａｗ               ｈａｔｓ. Ａｔ               ｍｙ               ｊｏｂ,               ｔｈｅ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｍａｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               Ｄｏｗｎ               Ｓｙｎｄｒｏｍｅ               Ｉ               ａｓｓｉｓｔｅｄ               ｃｏｉｎｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｎｅｗ               ｎｉｃｋｎａｍｅ. Ｈｅ               ｄｕｂｂｅｄ               ｍｅ               Ｈａｔ               Ｌａｄｙ. Ｌｕｃｋｉｌｙ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ,               ｍｙ               Ｎｅｗ               Ｙｏｒｋ               Ｃｉｔｙ               ｇｅｎｅｓ               ａｒｅ               ｉｍｂｅｄｄｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｌｏｖｅ               ｏｆ               ｈａｔｓ. Ｗｈｅｎ               ｍｙ               ｓｉｓｓｙ               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｙｏｕｎｇｅｒ,               ａ               ｆａｖｏｒｉｔｅ               ａｃｔｉｖｉｔｙ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｃｌｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｓｔｏｒｅ               ａｎｄ               ｔｒｙ               ｏｎ               ｄｏｚｅｎｓ               ｏｆ               ｈａｔｓ. Ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｌｌｉｅｒ,               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ. Ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ,               ｔｈｅ               ｗｈｏｌｅ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏ               ｌａｕｇｈ               ｏｕｒｓｅｌｖｅｓ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｓｎｏｒｔｉｎｇ               ｈｙｓｔｅｒｉａ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｗｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｎｅａｒｌｙ               ｔｈｒｏｗｎ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｒ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｒａｃｅ               ｏｕｔ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｗｅ               ｐｅｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｌｏｏｒ! Ｓｏ               ｗｅａｒｉｎｇ               ａ               ｈａｔ               ｉｓ               ｆｕｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ. Ｂｕｔ               ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｗｅａｒ               ａ               ｈａｔ               ｉｓ               ｎｏｔ. Ｆｅａｒｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｉｎｄ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｗｈｉｐ               ｏｆｆ               ｍｙ               ｃｏｖｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｌｅａｖｅ               ｍｅ               ｅｘｐｏｓｅｄ               ｉｓ               ａ               ｄｒａｇ! Ｓｏ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｙｅａｒｓ               ａｇｏ               Ｉ               ｍａｄｅ               ａ               ｂｏｌｄ               ｍｏｖｅ. Ｇｏ               ｓｈｏｒｔ.                Ｆｒｏｍ               ａ               ｌｕｃｋｙ               "ｆｌｉｎｇ"               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ               ｗａｓ               ｂｏｒｎ               ｍｙ               ｎｅｗ               ｐｉｘｉｅ               ｃｕｔ. Ｉｔ               ｍａｇｉｃａｌｌｙ               ｄｅ-ｅｍｐｈａｓｉｚｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｈｉｎｎｉｎｇ               ｐａｒｔｓ,               ａｎｄ               ａｓ               ｌｏｎｇ               ａｓ               ｓｈｅ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｃｕｔ               ｍｙ               ｂａｎｇｓ               ｔｏｏ               ｓｈｏｒｔ,               ｉｔ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｐｒｅｔｔｙ               ｇｏｏｄ. Ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｅｅｄｏｍ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｗｏｒｒｙｉｎｇ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｗｈｅｔｈｅｒ               ｍｙ               ｈａｔ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｂｌｏｗ               ｏｆｆ               ｗａｓ               ｅｘｈｉｌａｒａｔｉｎｇ! Ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｆａｔａｌ               ｆｌａｗ               ｗａｓ               ｈｅｒ               ｐｅｒｓｉｓｔｅｎｃｅ               ｉｎ               ｂｌｏｗ-ｄｒｙｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ｒｏｕｎｄｉｎｇ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｉｔ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｌｉｋｅ               ａ               ｈｅｌｍｅｔ. Ｉ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｔｒａｄｉｎｇ               ｈａｔｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｅｌｍｅｔｓ. Ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｌｅａｖｉｎｇ               ｈｅｒ               ｃｈａｉｒ,               Ｉ'ｄ               ｒｏｕｇｈ               ｕｐ               ｍｙ               ｈｅｌｍｅｔ               ａｎｄ               ｍａｋｅ               ｉｔ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｅｄｇｙ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｉｎ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｈｅｒ. Ｉｔ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ａ               ｔｅｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｗｉｌｌｓ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ. Ｓｃｒｅｗ               ｔｈａｔ.                Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               Ｌｅｘｉ               (ｎｏｔ               ｈｅｒ               ｒｅａｌ               ｎａｍｅ)               ｃａｍｅ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ. Ａ               ｄｏｗｎ-ｔｏ-ｅａｒｔｈ,               ｈｏｌｉｓｔｉｃ,               ｏｒｇａｎｉｃ,               ｌａｉｄ-ｂａｃｋ               ｌａｄｙ               ａｂｏｕｔ               30               ｗｈｏ               ｔｈｒｅｗ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｃｈａｉｒ-ｍａｓｓａｇｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｈａｉｒ               ｃｕｔ. Ｓｈｅ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｍｅ               ｕｐ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｐｒｉｃｅｓ               ｂａｓｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｈｏｗ               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｄａｙ. Ｉｆ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｈｅｒ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒｉｍ               ｓｈｅ               ｇａｖｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏ               ｗｏｒｋ               ａｔ               ａｌｌ               ａｎｄ               ｙｏｕ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｗｅｅｋｓ               ａｇｏ,               Ｌｅｘｉ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｓａｙ,               "Ｏｈ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｓｏ               ｅａｓｙ,               ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ               ｎｏ               ｃｈａｒｇｅ."               Ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ               ｃｕｔ               ｏｎ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｄａｙ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｇｏ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｗｅｌｖｅ               ｏｒ               ｓｉｘｔｅｅｎ               ｄｏｌｌａｒｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｒｅａｓｏｎａｂｌｅ. Ｌｅｘｉ'ｓ               ｒｅａｌ               ｐａｓｓｉｏｎ               ｗａｓ               ｔｅａｃｈｉｎｇ               Ｐｉｌａｔｅｓ. Ｗｈｅｎ               ｓｈｅ               ｓｔｙｌｅｄ               ｈａｉｒ,               ｓｈｅ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｌｅｔ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｇｉｖｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｏ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｕｄｄｅｎ               ｉｍｐｕｌｓｅ               ｔｏ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｃｕｔ               ｉｔ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆｆ               ｏｒ               "Ｄｏ               ｗｈａｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｗａｎｔ. Ｉ'ｍ               ｒｅａｄｙ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｎｅｗ               ｌｏｏｋ."               Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ               ＩＩ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｈａｖｅ               ｈａｐｐｅｎｅｄ               ａｔ               Ｌｅｘｉ'ｓ. Ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｂｒｏｕｇｈｔ               ｍｙ               ｓｉｓｔｅｒ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ｅｉｇｈｔ               ｉｎｃｈｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｅｖｅｎ               ｌａｙｅｒｓ               ｏｆｆ               ｈｅｒ               ｍａｎｅ,               Ｌｅｘｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｂｒｉｎｇ               ｈｅｒｓｅｌｆ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｉｔ               ａｌｌ               ａｔ               ｏｎｃｅ. Ｓｈｅ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｓｕｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｕｓｔｏｍｅｒ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｌｅａｖｅ               ｃｒｙｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂａｄ               Ｈａｉｒ               Ｍａｎｔｒａ               (Ｉｔ'ｌｌ               ｇｒｏｗ               ｂａｃｋ.Ｉｔ'ｌｌ               ｇｒｏｗ               ｂａｃｋ.)               Ｍｙ               ｓｉｓｔｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｔｉｍｅｓ               ｂｅｇｇｉｎｇ               Ｌｅｘｉ               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｏｆｆ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｓｈｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｉｔ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ! Ａｎｄ               ｕｎｌｉｋｅ               ｍａｎｙ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒｓ,               Ｌｅｘｉ               ｈａｄ               ｎｏ               ｅｇｏ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｓｔｙｌｅ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｈｅｒ               ｃｒｅａｔｉｏｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｈｏｗ               ｄａｒｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｃｕｓｔｏｍｅｒ               ｎｏｔ               ｂｅｈｏｌｄ               ｉｔ               ａｓ               ｓａｃｒｅｄ               ａｒｔ. Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｃｏｍｅ               ａ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｗａｒｙ               ｃｕｓｔｏｍｅｒ               ｗｈｏ               ｋｅｐｔ               ａ               ｃｏｎｓｔａｎｔ               ｅｙｅ               ｏｎ               ｐｒｏｃｅｅｄｉｎｇｓ. Ｉｆ               ｉｔ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｓｎｉｐ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｈｅ               Ｎｏ               Ｓｈｏｒｔ               Ｂａｎｇｓ               ｒｕｌｅ,               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｎｏ               ｑｕａｌｍｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｃｏｖｅｒｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               ｈａｎｄｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓａｙｉｎｇ,               "Ｗｈｏａ... ｗｈａｔ               ａｒｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｐｌａｎｎｉｎｇ               ｎｅｘｔ?"               Ａｎｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｌｅｘｉ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｄｏｎｅ,               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｌｅｔ               ｍｅ               ｅｘａｍｉｎｅ               ｓｉｄｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｎｄ               ｓｕｇｇｅｓｔ               ａｎｙ               ｃｈａｎｇｅｓ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｏｏｋ               Ｉ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ. Ｌｅｘｉ               ｗａｓ               ｂａｓｉｃａｌｌｙ               ｍｙ               ｄｒｅａｍ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｅｒ. Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｂｌｕｅ,               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｎｅ. Ｓｈｏｐ               ｃｌｏｓｅｄ. Ｎｏ               ｐｈｏｎｅ. Ｉｔ               ｉｓ               ｒｕｍｏｒｅｄ               ｓｈｅ'ｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｔｅａｃｈｉｎｇ               Ｐｉｌａｔｅｓ               ｆｕｌｌ-ｔｉｍｅ. Ｉ               ｈｏｐｅ               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｔｒｕｅ. Ｉ               ｈｏｐｅ               ｓｈｅ'ｓ               ｈａｐｐｙ. Ｂｕｔ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｍｏｒｅ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｔｏ               ｗａｎｄｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｌｏｎｓ,               ｔａｋｉｎｇ               ｒｉｓｋｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｓｔｒａｎｇｅｒｓ,               ａｇａｉｎ               ｗｏｎｄｅｒｉｎｇ               ｉｆ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｂｅ               Ｔｈｅ               Ｏｎｅ. Ｔｈｅｎ               ｉｎ               Ｏｃｔｏｂｅｒ               ｏｆ               2008,               ｗｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｘｃｉｔｅｍｅｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｐｏｌｉｔｉｃｓ               ｗａｓ               ａｔ               ａ               ｃｒｅｓｃｅｎｄｏ,               ｔｈｅ               ａｎｔｉｃｉｐａｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｍｏｎｕｍｅｎｔａｌ               ｃｈａｎｇｅ               ｗａｓ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ａｉｒ,               Ｉ               ｄｉｖｅｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｉｒｄｒｅｓｓｉｎｇ               ｐｏｏｌ               ａｎｄ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｍｙ               ｃｈａｎｃｅｓ.                Ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ               ＩＩＩ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｓｔｅｒ               ｓｔｏｏｄ               ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｓｈｏｐ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｌｌ. Ｆｏｒ               ｗｅｅｋｓ               Ｉ               ｓｔｕｄｉｅｄ               ｉｔ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ. Ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｇｒｏｗｉｎｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｎｅａｒｌｙ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｍｏｎｔｈｓ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               Ｌｅｘｉ               ｄｉｓａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ. Ｉ'ｄ               ｒｅｓｏｒｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｏｌｄ               ｈａｔ               ｈａｂｉｔｓ               ａｇａｉｎ. Ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｓｌｉｇｈｔｌｙ               ａｓｙｍｍｅｔｒｉｃ               ｃｕｔ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｗ               ｌｏｏｋ               Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ. Ａ               ｈｉｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｐｉｘｉｅ               ｃｕｔ               ｏｎ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｉｄｅ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔ               ｓｗｏｏｐｅｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｒｔ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｉｇｈｔ,               ｓｏｍｅｗｈａｔ               ｃｏｖｅｒｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｅａｒ. Ｉｔ               ａｎｇｌｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈｅｅｋ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｎｇｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｐａｒｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｈｏｌｅ               ｆｒｉｎｇｙ               ｓｗｏｏｐ. Ｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ａｎ               ａｉｒ               ｏｆ               ｓｏｐｈｉｓｔｉｃａｔｉｏｎ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｕｆｆｉｎｅｓｓ. Ａ               ｒｅｓｐｅｃｔａｂｌｅ               ｓｔｙｌｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｔｏｕｃｈ               ｏｆ               ｍｉｓｃｈｉｅｆ               ａｎｄ               ｒｅｂｅｌｌｉｏｎ. Ｍａｙｂｅ               Ｉ               ｒｅａｄ               ｔｏｏ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｄｅｌ'ｓ               ｅｘｐｒｅｓｓｉｏｎ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｐｓｙｃｈｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｆｏｒ               ｗｅｅｋｓ. Ｏｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｆａｔｅｆｕｌ               ｄａｙ               Ｉ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｉｎ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｃｒｏｗｄｅｄ. Ａ               ｍａｔｒｏｎｌｙ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｓｌｅｎｄｅｒ               ｗａｉｆ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｃｈａｔｔｉｎｇ. Ｂｏｔｈ               ｗｏｒｋｅｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ. Ｉ               ｐｏｉｎｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｓｔｅｒ,               ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｏｏｋ               ａ               ｂｒｅａｔｈ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｒｅｍｏｖｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｈａｔ. Ｉ               ｐｏｉｎｔｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｍｙ               ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍ               ａｒｅａｓ,               ｅｓｐｅｃｉａｌｌｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｈｉｎｎｉｎｇ               ｃｒｏｗｎ. Ｉ               ｄｅｓｃｒｉｂｅｄ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｈｏｐｉｎｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｈａｉｒｓｔｙｌｅ               ａｎｄ               ｗｈｙ               Ｉ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｓｔｅｒ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｗｏｒｋ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ. "Ｄｏ               Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｙｐｅ               ｏｆ               ｈａｉｒ               ｔｈａｔ               ｃａｎ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈａｉｒｓｔｙｌｅ?"               Ｉ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｆａｉｔｈ. Ｔｈｅｙ               ｂｏｔｈ               ｐｏｋｅｄ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ,               ｌｉｋｅ               ｓｈｏｐｐｅｒｓ               ｏｎ               ａ               ｒｉｐｅ               ｍｅｌｏｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｎｏｄ               ａｎｄ               ｈｍｍｍ               ａｇｒｅｅｍｅｎｔ. Ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｎｓｅｎｓｕｓ               ｗａｓ               ｙｅｓ. Ｉ               ｈｏｐｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｌｄｅｒ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｄｏ               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ,               ｂｕｔ               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｎａｇｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ａｓｓｉｇｎｅｄ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ               (ｎｏｔ               ｈｅｒ               ｒｅａｌ               ｎａｍｅ)               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ｃａｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｅ. Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｄａｒｌｉｎｇ. Ｓｈｅ               ｅｎｔｈｕｓｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｈａｄ               ｔｈｅ               "ｉｎｓｔｒｕｃｔｉｏｎｓ"               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｔｙｌｅ               ａｎｄ               ｐｕｌｌｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｌｏｓｓｙ               ｃａｒｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｓｔｅｐ               ｂｙ               ｓｔｅｐ               ｓｋｅｔｃｈｅｓ,               ｊｕｓｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ａ               ｒｅｃｉｐｅ. Ｉ               ｒｅｌａｘｅｄ               ａ               ｂｉｔ. Ｈｏｗ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｓｈｅ               ｇｏ               ｗｒｏｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｒｅｃｉｓｅ               ｉｎｓｔｒｕｃｔｉｏｎｓ? Ｉ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｏｆｆ               ｍｙ               ｇｌａｓｓｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｌｅｔ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｍｙ               ｇｕａｒｄ. Ｎｏｔｅ:               Ｉ'ｍ               ｎｏ               ｌｏｎｇｅｒ               ｐｒｏｆｏｕｎｄｌｙ               ｎｅａｒｓｉｇｈｔｅｄ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｐａｙｉｎｇ               ｃｌｏｓｅ               ａｔｔｅｎｔｉｏｎ,               ｅｉｔｈｅｒ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｓｎｉｐｐｉｎｇ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ               ｏｎ               ｌｏｎｇｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               Ｉ               ｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄ               ｗｈｉｌｅ               Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｅ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｈｅｒ               ｎｅｗ               ｐｕｐｐｙ,               ｈｅｒ               ｎｅｗ               ｒｏｏｍｍａｔｅ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｗ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｓｈｅ               ｍｏｖｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｎ               ｈｅｒ               ｏｗｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｔｉｍｅ. Ｉｔ               ｏｃｃｕｒｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ａｓｋ               ｈｏｗ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ｔｈｉｓ. "Ｔｗｏ               ｍｏｎｔｈｓ!"               ｓｈｅ               ａｎｓｗｅｒｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｐｒｉｄｅ. Ｏｋ,               ｂｕｔ               ｓｈｅ               ｈａｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｎｓｔｒｕｃｔｉｏｎｓ               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｎｓｕｌｔｅｄ               ｔｈｅｍ               ａ               ｌｏｔ. Ｓｔｉｌｌ,               Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｍｙ               ｂｌｏｏｄ               ｐｒｅｓｓｕｒｅ               ｒｉｓｅ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｐｏｉｎｔｓ. Ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｔｏ               ｆｏｃｕｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｒｒｏｒ,               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ               ａｆｒａｉｄ               ｔｏ. Ａｌｌ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈａｉｒ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｇｒｏｗｉｎｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｓｔ               ｆｅｗ               ｍｏｎｔｈｓ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｌｙｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｌｏｏｒ. Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄ               ｉｔ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｓｗｏｏｐｉｎｇ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ               ａｎｄ               ｄｒａｐｉｎｇ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｔｈｉｃｋ               ｆｒｉｎｇｅｄ               ｂａｎｇｓ               ａｔ               ａｎ               ａｎｇｌｅ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｍｙ               ｆｏｒｅｈｅａｄ. Ｗｈｅｎ               Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ,               Ｉ               ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ               ｒａｎ               ｍｙ               ｈａｎｄ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｍｙ               ｔｏｏ-ｓｍｏｏｔｈ               ｈｅａｄ. Ｉ               ｆｏｒｅｓｔａｌｌｅｄ               ｐａｎｉｃ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｄｅｎｉａｌ. "ＯＫ,"               Ｉ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ,               "Ｉｔ               ｆｅｅｌｓ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ,               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｓｈｏｒｔ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ'ｍ               ｓｕｒｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｉｎｓｔｒｕｃｔｉｏｎｓ               ｓｈｅ'ｓ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｉｎｇ               ｓｏ               ｃｌｏｓｅｌｙ,               ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ               ａ               ｐａｒｔ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｓｈｅ               ｍａｇｉｃａｌｌｙ               ｍａｋｅｓ               ｉｔ               ａｌｌ               ｓｔａｎｄ               ｕｐ               ａｎｄ               ｌｏｏｋ               ｌｏｎｇｅｒ. Ｐｌｅａｓｅ,               Ｇｏｄ."               Ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｐｕｔ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｇｌａｓｓｅｓ.                Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｎｅ. Ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｉｒ               Ｉ               ｂｒｏｕｇｈｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｏ               ｃｒｅａｔｅ               ａ               ｌｏｎｇｅｒ               ｓｔｙｌｅ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｎｅ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｎｎｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ａｎｙ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｃｕｔ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｗｏｒｎ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ. Ｇｏｎｎｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｓｔ               ｂｒｅａｋ-ｕｐ               ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               Ｉ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｇａｖｅ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｂａｒｅｌｙ               ａ               ｆｏｕｒｔｈ               ｉｎｃｈ               ｏｆ               ｈａｉｒ               ｓｔｏｏｄ               ｄｅｆｉａｎｔｌｙ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ. Ｗａｓ               ｔｈｉｓ               ａ               ｈｏｒｒｉｂｌｅ               ｊｏｋｅ? Ｗａｓ               Ｉ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｐｕｎｋｅｄ? Ｃａｕｓｅ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｓｕｅ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ａｓｓｅｓ! Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｏｂｌｉｖｉｏｕｓ               ａｔ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ａｓ               ｓｈｅ               ｄａｂｂｅｄ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｆｉｎｉｓｈｉｎｇ               ｐｒｏｄｕｃｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｕｂｂｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ. Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｅｎｔｅｒｅｄ               ｄｅｅｐ               ｓｈｏｃｋ. Ｍｙ               ｈａｎｄｓ               ｇｒｉｐｐｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｃｈｅｅｋｓ               ａｎｄ               ｎｏｓｅ,               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｈａｎｄｓ               ｆｏｌｄｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｐｒａｙｅｒ. Ｏｒ               ｃｕｐｐｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｙｐｅｒｖｅｎｔｉｌａｔｉｏｎ. Ｏｎｌｙ               ｍｙ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｈｏｗｉｎｇ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｈｉｄｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒｏｗｉｎｇ               ｈｏｒｒｏｒ. Ｍｙ               ｂｒｅａｔｈｉｎｇ               ｇｒｅｗ               ｓｈａｌｌｏｗ,               ａｎｄ               ａｓ               ｉｆ               ｗｉｔｎｅｓｓｉｎｇ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｐｅｒｓｏｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｒｒｏｒ,               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｅａｒｓ               ｗｅｌｌｉｎｇ               ｕｐ. Ｍｙ               ｈｅａｒｔ               ｐｏｕｎｄｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｆｅａｒ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｍｕｔｔｅｒ               ｗｏｒｄｓ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｈａｎｄｓ. Ｍｕｆｆｌｅｄ               "Ｏｍｙｇｏｄｏｍｙｇｏｄｏｍｙｇｏｄ,ｎｏ,ｎｏ,ｎｏ"               ｍｕｓｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ｒｅａｃｈｅｄ               Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ'ｓ               ｅａｒｓ. Ｓｈｅ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｓｕｄｄｅｎｌｙ               ａｎｄ               ｇａｖｅ               ｍｅ               ａ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｗｏｒｒｉｅｄ               ｌｏｏｋ. Ｉ               ｔｒｉｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｎａｐ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｒｅａｌｉｔｙ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｒｅａｌ               ｔｒａｇｅｄｉｅｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｍｙ               ｂｒａｉｎ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｂａｒｅｌｙ               ｈａｎｄｌｅ               ａ               ｈａｉｒ               ｔｒａｇｅｄｙ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｍｏｍｅｎｔ. Ｉ               ｇｒｏｐｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｍｎａｎｔｓ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ,               ｔｒｙｉｎｇ               ｎｏｔ               ｔｏ               ｂｕｒｓｔ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｆｕｌｌ               ｆｌｅｄｇｅｄ               ｈｙｓｔｅｒｉａ. Ｉ               ｒｏｓｅ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ａ               ｃｌｏｓｅｒ               ｌｏｏｋ               ａｎｄ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｎｄ               ｍｉｒｒｏｒ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｎｄ               ｓｉｄｅｓ. Ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｏｂｖｉｏｕｓｌｙ               ａ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｖｅｒｇｅ. Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｔｕｄｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｎｓｔｒｕｃｔｉｏｎｓ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｈｅｒ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｄｅｐｅｎｄｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｉｔ. Ｓｈｅ,               ｔｏｏ,               ｗａｓ               ｆｉｇｈｔｉｎｇ               ｔｅａｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ｎｅａｒｌｙ               ｐｌｅａｄｉｎｇ,               "Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ               ｗｈａｔ'ｓ               ｗｒｏｎｇ. Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｉｔ               ｓａｙｓ. Ｉ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ...."               Ｂｅｉｎｇ               ａ               ｎｕｒｔｕｒｉｎｇ               ｓｏｒｔ,               Ｉ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｆｅｌｌ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｃｏｍｆｏｒｔ-ｔｈｅ-ｃｈｉｌｄ               ｍｏｄｅ. Ｉ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｎｏｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｗｏｒｌｄ,               ｉｔ'ｌｌ               ｇｒｏｗ               ｂａｃｋ. Ｔｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｒｒｏｒ               ａｇａｉｎ               ａｎｄ               ｗａｓ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏ               "Ｏｍｙｇｏｄｏｍｙｇｏｄ               (ｈｙｐｅｒｖｅｎｔｉｌａｔｉｎｇ)               Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｈｏｗ               Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ｌｉｖｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｉｓ!"               Ｎｅｗ               ｒｅａｌｉｚａｔｉｏｎ:               "Ｏｈ,               ｍｙ               Ｇｏｄ!! Ｉ'ｍ               ｓｔａｒｔｉｎｇ               ａ               ｎｅｗ               ｊｏｂ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｗｅｅｋ!"               Ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｒｙｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｔａｌｋ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅｄｇｅ,               "Ｏｋ. Ｏｋ. Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ｗｅａｒ               ａ               ｈａｔ               ｔｉｌｌ               ｉｔ               ｇｒｏｗｓ               ｏｕｔ..."               Ａｎｄ               ｐｏｏｒ               Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ,               ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ               ｆｅａｒｉｎｇ               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｌｏｓｅ               ｈｅｒ               ｎｅｗ               ｊｏｂ,               ｎｅｗ               ｃａｒｅｅｒ,               ｍａｙｂｅ               ｈｅｒ               ｎｅｗ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ,               ｗａｓ               ｎｅａｒ               ｐａｎｉｃ               ｈｅｒｓｅｌｆ. Ａｓ               ｄｅｖａｓｔａｔｅｄ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｍｙ               ｗｉｓｈ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｔｅｅｎ-ａｇｅ               ｇｉｒｌ               ｃｏｍｍｉｔ               ｈａｒａ-ｋｉｒｉ               ｏｖｅｒ               ａ               ｂａｄ               ｈａｉｒｃｕｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｈｅｒ               ｏｗｎ. Ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｔｒｉｅｄ               ｈａｒｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｑｕｅｌｃｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｓｅｌｆ-ｉｎｄｕｌｇｅｎｔ               ｒａｎｔ. Ｍｙ               ｄｉｓｍａｙ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ａｐｐａｒｅｎｔ,               Ｉ'ｍ               ｓｕｒｅ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｔｒｉｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｄｅｆｉｎｅ               ｔｈｅ               ａｒｅａｓ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｅｘｐｅｃｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｍｅｓｈ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｒｅａｌｉｔｙ. "Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ,               Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋ               ａｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｐｉｃｔｕｒｅ               ａｎｄ               ｗｏｎｄｅｒ               ｗｈａｔ               ｈａｐｐｅｎｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｂａｎｇｓ."               Ｈｅｒ               ｆａｃｅ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃｒｕｍｐｌｅ,               "Ｏｈ,               ｎｏ,               Ｉ               ｆｏｒｇｏｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈａｔ! Ｉ'ｍ               ｓｏ               ｓｏｒｒｙ!"               Ｍｙ               ｑｕｉｖｅｒｙ               ｖｏｉｃｅ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｏｎ,               "Ａｎｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｉｃｔｕｒｅ,               ｓｈｅ               ｈａｓ               ｆｕｌｌ               ｈａｉｒ               ｏｎ               ｔｏｐ..."               ｗｈｅｒｅａｓ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｆｌａｔ               ｓｍｏｏｔｈ               ｈａｉｒ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｃａｌｐ               ｗａｓ               ｃｌｅａｒｌｙ               ｖｉｓｉｂｌｅ               ｉｎ               ｐａｔｃｈｅｓ. "Ｗｅｌｌ,"               Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ               ｓｔｒｕｇｇｌｅｄ,               "ｈｅｒ               ｈａｉｒ               ｉｓ               ａ               ｌｏｔ               ｔｈｉｃｋｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｙｏｕｒｓ."               "Ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｉｓ               ｗｈｙ               Ｉ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｗｅ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｉｆ               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｄｏ               ｔｈｉｓ!"               Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ               ｗａｓ               ｓｈａｋｉｎｇ               ｈｅｒ               ｓｗｅｅｔ               ｃｏｎｆｏｕｎｄｅｄ               ｈｅａｄ               ａｇａｉｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｏｔａｌ               ｌａｃｋ               ｏｆ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ               ａｓ               ｔｏ               ｈｏｗ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｈａｐｐｅｎｅｄ. "Ａｎｄ",               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｏｕｔ,               "ｗｈａｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｉｒ               ｔｈａｔ               ｆａｌｌｓ               ａｔ               ａｎ               ａｎｇｌｅ               ａｌｏｎｇ               ｈｅｒ               ｃｈｅｅｋ? Ｏｂｖｉｏｕｓｌｙ               ｓｈｅ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ｉｔ               ｃｕｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｈｉｓ."               Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ               ｗａｓ               ｔｒｙｉｎｇ               ｈａｒｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｏｕｎｄ               ｋｎｏｗｌｅｄｇｅａｂｌｅ,               "Ｏｈ,               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｃｕｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｙｏｕｒｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｌａｙｅｒｅｄ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｗａｙ               ｔｈａｔ               ｉｔ               ｇｉｖｅｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｌｌｕｓｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｌｏｎｇｅｒ."               Ｒｉｇｈｔ. Ａｎｄ               Ｎｉａｇａｒａ               ｇｉｖｅｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｌｌｕｓｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ａ               ｗａｔｅｒｆａｌｌ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏｏ               ｌａｔｅ               ｔｏ               ｃｈａｎｇｅ               ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ. Ｎｏ               ｍａｔｔｅｒ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｐｏｉｎｔｅｄ               ｏｕｔ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｔ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｍａｋｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｉｒｓｔｙｌｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｓｔｅｒ               ａｐｐｅａｒ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｒｏｕｎｄ               ｐｉｎｈｅａｄ. Ａｎｄ               ｂｅｌａｂｏｒｉｎｇ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｇｉｒｌ'ｓ               ｍｉｓｔａｋｅ               ａｎｄ               ｉｎｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅ               ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｍａｋｅ               ｈｅｒ               ａ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｓｔｙｌｉｓｔ. Ｉ               ｓｕｓｐｅｃｔ               ｓｈｅ'ｌｌ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｆｏｒｇｅｔ               ｏｕｒ               ｅｎｃｏｕｎｔｅｒ. Ｓｏ               ｗｅ               ｃａｒｒｉｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｅａｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｅｎｓｉｏｎ               ｕｐ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｇｉｓｔｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｐａｉｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｓｔ               ｐｌｕｓ               ｔｉｐ. (Ｏｎ               ｐｒｉｎｃｉｐｌｅ,               Ｉ               ｆｉｇｈｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｐｕｔａｔｉｏｎ               Ｉ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ａｓ               ａ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｗａｉｔｒｅｓｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗｏｍｅｎ               ａｒｅ               ｔｅｒｒｉｂｌｅ               ｔｉｐｐｅｒｓ. Ｓｏ               ｎｏ               ｍａｔｔｅｒ               ｈｏｗ               ａｂｏｍｉｎａｂｌｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｒｖｉｃｅ,               Ｉ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｎｏｔ               ｇｉｖｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｏ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｔｅｒｅｏｔｙｐｅ. Ｂｕｔ               ｄａｍｎ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｓｔｉｎｇｙ               ｂｉｔｃｈｅｓ               ｗｈｏ               ｐｕｔ               ｍｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｐｏｓｉｔｉｏｎ!)               Ｉ               ｒｅｆｒａｉｎｅｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｓａｙｉｎｇ               ａ               ｗｏｒｄ               ｔｏ               ｈｅｒ               ｂｏｓｓ,               ｔｈｏｕｇｈ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｐｉｓｓｅｄ               ａｔ               ｈｅｒ               ｆｏｒ               ｌｅａｖｉｎｇ               ｍｅ               ａｎｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｃｈｅｃｋｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｓｔｙｌｉｓｔ'ｓ               ｐｒｏｇｒｅｓｓ. Ｈｏｗｅｖｅｒ,               ｗｈｅｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｐｅｅｋｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ａｎｄ               ｃａｌｌｅｄ,               "Ｏｈ,               ｔｈａｔ               ｌｏｏｋｓ               ｒｅａｌ               ｃｕｔｅ!"               Ｉ               ｒｅｓｐｏｎｄｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｇｌａｒｅ. Ｔｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｐｕｔ               ｍｙ               ｈａｔ               ｂａｃｋ               ｏｎ. Ａｔ               ｌｅａｓｔ               Ｓｗｅｅｔｐｅａ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ａｓｋ               ｉｆ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｐｅｒｉｏｄ.                Ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｓｅｖｅｒａｌ               ｄａｙｓ,               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｔ               ｏｎｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ               ａ               ｍｉｒｒｏｒ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｓｈｏｃｋ               ｒｅｎｅｗｅｄ. Ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈｏｕｔ               ｏｕｒ               ｈｏｍｅ,               ｍｙ               ｈｕｓｂａｎｄ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｅｒｉｏｄｉｃ               ｃｒｙ,               "Ｏｈ               ｍｙ               Ｇｏｄ,               ｍｙ               ｈａｉｒ!"               Ｉ               ｔｒｉｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｐｏｓｉｔｉｖｅ               ｉｎ               ｉｔ. Ｂｕｔ               ｓｈｅ               ｈａｄ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｍｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｖｉｒｔｕａｌｌｙ               ｎｏ               ｂａｎｇｓ. Ａｎｄ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｔｈｉｎｎｅｓｔ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｒｏｗｎ,               ｓｈｅ               ｍａｎａｇｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｐａｔｔｅｒｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｅｎｔｅｒ               ｅｎｔｉｒｅｌｙ               ｅｘｐｏｓｅｄ. Ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｉｒｓ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｉｔ               ｌａｙ               ｆｌａｔ,               ｂｏｗｉｎｇ               ａｗａｙ,               ａｓ               ｉｆ               ｍｏｏｎｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｒｏｗｎ,               ｍａｋｉｎｇ               ｉｔ               ｉｍｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｅｎｔｅｒ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ,               ｅｘｃｅｐｔ               ｐｅｒｈａｐｓ               ａ               ｙａｒｍｕｌｋｅ. Ａｎｄ               ｗｈｅｒｅｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｈｉｎｎｉｎｇ               ａｒｅａｓ               ｗｅｒｅ,               ｓｃａｌｐ               ｗａｓ               ｖｉｓｉｂｌｅ,               ｒｅｍｉｎｉｓｃｅｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｍａｎｇｅ. Ｔｈｅ               ｃｌｏｓｅｓｔ               ｓｔｙｌｅ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｉｄｅｎｔｉｆｙ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｗａｓ               ｃａｎｃｅｒ               ｓｕｒｖｉｖｏｒｓ               ｗｈｏｓｅ               ｗｉｓｐｙ               ｈａｉｒ               ｉｓ               ｂｅｇｉｎｎｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｇｒｏｗ               ｂａｃｋ. Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｄｅｅｐ               ｒｅｓｐｅｃｔ               ｆｏｒ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈａｔ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｓａｆｅ               ｔｏ               ａｓｓｕｍｅ               ｍｏｓｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｇｏ               ｏｕｔ               ａｎｄ               ｐａｙ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｌｏｏｋ. Ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｓｈｏｗｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｓｏｎ,               ｗｈｏ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｓｔｕｄｉｅｄ               ｉｔ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｓ               ｑｕｉｔｅ               ｇｏｏｄ               ａｔ               ｓｔｙｌｉｎｇ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｈａｉｒ,               ｈｅ               ｐｌａｙｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｍｙ               ｔｒａｕｍａ               ｂｙ               ｎｏｔｉｎｇ               ｈｏｗ               ｗｅｌｌ               ｓｈｅ               ｃｕｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｐａｔｔｅｒｎ,               ａｎｄ,               "Ｗｏｗ,               ｓｈｅ               ｓｕｒｅ               ｆｉｘｅｄ               ｉｔ               ｓｏ               ｉｔ               ｃａｎ'ｔ               ｂｅ               ｍａｄｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｔａｎｄ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｕｐｒｉｇｈｔ,               ｅｖｅｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｐｒｏｄｕｃｔ. Ｈｍｍ. Ｌｏｏｋｓ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｇｏｎｎａ               ｈａｆｔａ               ｇｒｏｗ               ｏｕｔ."               Ｔｈａｎｋｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｄｉａｇｎｏｓｔｉｃｓ,               ｂｕｂｂｙ. Ｈｅ               ｄｉｄ               ａｃｋｎｏｗｌｅｄｇｅ               ｈｅｒ               ｃｏｍｐｌｅｔｅ               ｌａｃｋ               ｏｆ               ｒｅｓｐｅｃｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｙ               ｗｉｓｈｅｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｏｆｆｅｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｉｔ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｔｉｍｅ               ａｎｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｃｈａｒｇｅ               ｍｅ. Ｉ               ｐｌａｎ               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ｈｉｍ               ｕｐ               ｏｎ               ｔｈａｔ. Ｂｕｔ               ｍｙ               ｆａｖｏｒｉｔｅ               ｗａｓ               ｈｉｓ               ｒｏｏｍｍａｔｅ'ｓ               ｒｅｓｐｏｎｓｅ. Ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｒｅｍｏｖｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｈａｔ,               Ｉ               ｄｒｅｗ               ａ               ｓｋｅｔｃｈ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｅｎｅｒａｌ               ｌｏｏｋ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｇｏｎｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ. Ａｎｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｍａｄｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｉｇ               ｒｅｖｅａｌ,               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｓｉｌｅｎｃｅｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｂｅｇｓ               ａ               ｃｒｉｃｋｅｔ               ｓｏｕｎｄｔｒａｃｋ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｃｋｇｒｏｕｎｄ. Ｂｕｔ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｓｐｏｋｅ,               ｔｈｉｓ               ｋｉｄ               ｓｐｏｋｅ               ｔｒｕｅ. "Ｔｈｅｙ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｆｕｃｋｅｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｕｐ,               ｄｕｄｅ!"               Ｉ               ｂｌｕｒｔｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ａ               ｔｏｔａｌｌｙ               ｓｉｎｃｅｒｅ,               "Ｔｈａｎｋ-ｙｏｕ!"               Ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ,               ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ               ｗｈｏ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄｓ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ'ｍ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ...                Ｉｔ               ｏｃｃｕｒｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｓｅｅｎ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｓｉｍｉｌａｒ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｆａｍｉｌｙ               ａｌｂｕｍ. Ｄｉｇｇｉｎｇ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ,               Ｉ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｌｄ               ｔｉｎｔｙｐｅ               ｏｆ               Ｇｒａｎｎｙ               ａｓ               ａ               ｃｈｉｌｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｅｒ               ｂｒｏｔｈｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｓｉｓｔｅｒ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｔｅ-1800'ｓ. Ｔｈｅｙ               ｈａｄ               ａｌｌ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｎｅａｒ               ｄｅａｔｈ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｉｌｌｎｅｓｓ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｇｕｅｓｓ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｋｉｄｓ               ｈａｄ               ｈｉｇｈ               ｆｅｖｅｒ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｃｏｍｍｏｎ               ｔｏ               ｃｕｔ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｈａｉｒ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｓｈｏｒｔ. Ａｓ               ｓｏｏｎ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｒｅｃｏｖｅｒｅｄ,               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｓｔｕｄｉｏ               ｉｎ               Ｍａｎｈａｔｔａｎ               ｔｏ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｐｈｏｔｏ               ｔａｋｅｎ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｓｔｏｏｄ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｓｏｌｅｍｎ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ               ｉｎ               ｈａｉｒｃｕｔｓ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ               ｈａｔｅｄ. Ｉ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               Ｉ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｒｅｓｅｍｂｌｅ               ｍｙ               ｇｒａｎｎｙ               ｏｒ               ｈｅｒ               ｓｉｓｔｅｒ               ｉｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｐｈｏｔｏ. Ｂｕｔ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｓｔｕｄｉｅｄ               ｉｔ,               Ｉ               ｒｅａｌｉｚｅｄ,               ｎｏ,               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｈａｉｒ,               Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｍｙ               ｇｒｅａｔ-ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌｙ. Ｅｘｃｅｐｔ               ｈｅ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｌｏｔ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｈａｉｒ!                Ｎｏｗ               ｔｈａｔ               ａ               ｍｏｎｔｈ               ｏｒ               ｓｏ               ｈａｓ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ,               Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｍａｄｅ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｍｅａｓｕｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｐｅａｃｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｌｏｏｋ. Ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ,               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｇｒｏｗｎ               ｏｕｔ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               Ｉ               ｒｅｓｅｍｂｌｅ               Ｐａｕｌ               Ｓｉｍｏｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｐｌａｓｔｅｒｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｓｔｙｌｅ. Ｓａｍｅ               ｃｏｌｏｒ,               ｓｉｍｉｌａｒ               ｈｅｉｇｈｔ. Ｉｆ               ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ               ａ               ｃｅｌｅｂｒｉｔｙ               ｌｏｏｋ-ａｌｉｋｅ               ｃｏｎｔｅｓｔ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｈｅｒｅ,               Ｉ'ｍ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ!                Ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｙ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｃｏｍｅ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｍｙ               ｓｏｎ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｔｉｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｒｉｍｍｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｍｏｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ｈａｉｒ,               ｏｒ               Ｉ'ｌｌ               ｂｅ               ｒｅａｄｙ               ｔｏ               ｖｅｎｔｕｒｅ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               ｎｅｗ               ｌｏｏｋ. Ｗｈｅｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｄｒｅａｄｅｄ               ｄａｙ               ｃｏｍｅｓ,               Ｉ'ｌｌ               ｈａｕｎｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｌｏｎｓ,               ａｆｒａｉｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｒｕｓｔ,               ｌｅｅｒｙ               ｏｆ               ｓｔｒａｎｇｅｒｓ,               ｆｅａｒｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｉｓｋｓ,               ｗｏｎｄｅｒｉｎｇ               ｉｆ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｂｅ               Ｔｈｅ               Ｏｎｅ. Ａｎｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｙｏｕ,               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ'ｍ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ               ｓｅａｔｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｄｒａｐｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｃｈａｉｒ,               ｂｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｍａｎ               ｏｒ               ｂｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｗｏｍａｎ,               ｙｏｕ               ｃａｎ               ｃｏｕｎｔ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｉｓ:               Ｉ'ｌｌ               ｂｅ               ｙｏｕｒ               Ｃｕｓｔｏｍｅｒ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｈｅｌｌ!

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Trilogy Like 50 Shades - Blog Homepage Results

Sci-Fi Drama Queenbyscifidramaqueen

http://scifidramaqueen.wordpress.com/

Like the even woman on planet earth I decided to pick up the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy and see what all the fuss was about. Here is my review of...

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