The hills are alive with the sound of my screams

When you move 400 miles away from your home, it's inevitable that you have to make a few changes. And besides all those obvious changes (house, job (yeah right), friends), there's also all those pain in the ass changes. Like finding a new dentist and getting a good lady doctor and, worst of all, finding a new hair stylist.

This never used to be a worry for me. You are, after all, talking to the girl who would routinely roll out of bed in high school, throw my Catholic school girl kilt and golf shirt on top of the boxers and t-shirt that I had worn to bed the night before, brush my teeth, and show up at school with hair that I considered slightly disheveled but my friends called "sex hair" because it looked like I had just come from an extreme bedroom romp. Which I had ... by myself in my boxers, t-shirt, and a good book. And in the seven years since, I may have gotten out of the habit of wearing pajamas in public (shudder), but I haven't changed that much. But what I do love is my hair. On a good day, it's sassy boombalassy. Improperly managed however, and it's your 12-year-old punk ass brother.

In Philadelphia, I had one hair stylist and one hair stylist only. And damn she was fine. I could show up for my scheduled appointment with no idea what I wanted to do with my hair, tell her what kind of mood I was in (adventurous, flirty, happy with what I got) and in a few snips of the scissors, she would create a hair masterpiece. A hairpiece! Nope, that doesn't work.

I have very shot hair.

Not just any josey schmo with a pair of scissors and a certificate from Jean Madeline school of Beauty can cut and style to my exact specifications. The very few times over the years that I'd strayed from my girl in an extreme pinch have never ended well.

There was the time I asked for a trim and I left a salon with the Hillary Clinton.

And that one time I asked for a Rihanna and I got a Julie Andrews a la "The Sound of Music."

And even that time I wanted something sexy and I totally got Beckhamed. And yes, I do see the irony, thankyouverymuch.

Needless to say, I'd become quite attached to my Philly hair stylist, who always had me leaving the shop feeling like a rock star (and never once like a Secretary of State, Austrian fraulein, or soccer star slash international male sex god). So I know finding a new one will not be easy.

I've been up here in New England for a few months now, and I've been forced to sample the local stylists, and I must say I am not entirely pleased. There haven't been any "The Hills Are Alive" hairsasters, but I haven't yet found someone I'm ready to let in to my Hair Circle of Trust.  Not all who cut may enter. But once you're in, gggrrrrllll we'll talk about your crazy-ass boyfriend, Jew-hating neighbors, and sister in rehab while you cut my hair alllll day! Maybe we'll even get drinks and talk about our lady parts. Who knows where it'll go. With a pair of scissors and some blond highlights ANYTHING is possible. Tweet