My hairdresser last night said, “Cutting your hair makes me feel like I am cutting Veronica Lake’s hair.”

This weekend I have the following plans: yoga, date with JH to crepes and a movie, sleep, soccer, peach crisp, nothing, sleep, farmer’s market, yoga, pot roast, nothing.

My hairdresser last night said, “You have great hair. Do you like your hair? Because some people with great hair don’t like their hair.”

It’s Friday. Cinnamon rolls are made, and ready to be eaten. 37 to go. There are mixed cds to mix, to mail, to pour my soul into, and to hope that (and know that) the recipients will get, and love.

My hairdresser last night said, “So the sister wives were on Oprah today…”

I’m going to do a lot of s t r e t c h i n g this weekend, and cooking, and deep breathing in and out through my nose, and alternatively relaxing my face muscles and smiling through Warrior 3.

My hairdresser last night said, “What is your heritage?”

I said Italian.

My hairdresser last night said, “Oh my God, I knew it! I knew you were Italian!!”