Colleen is smooth to my messy. Even when we went to Pittsburgh for Colleen's lung transplant evaluation, her hair was shiny and silky-looking, although she didn't think so. She's timely in her cuts and color. She goes a lighter shade of blonde in summertime. She's got it down, including the blow-dry. In spite of her unfair share of "the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to," including losing all her hair to chemo five years ago as she mentions, her hair has remained enviously thick. Me? I'm beauty salon phobic. Do not like sitting in front of the mirror for an hour (or more). If I go twice a year to the "beauty parlor," an outdated phrase I can't seem to shake, that's good for me. Of course, the cost of a cut and color in this town contribute to infrequent visits too. For instance, a haircut from stylist Sally Hershberger, who's relocated from Manhattan to Beverly Hills, starts at $800. So I remain messy, with years behind me of resolutions to learn how to blow-dry my hair into swinging silk. Or, now, how to use the ceramic wand to create sultry S-waves. I even bought a flat iron some years back. All three hair tools sit nicely in a basket in my "beauty" closet. I happen upon them from time to time and notice the thermal protectant spray from TRESemme I've purchased too. So all the guns are there, I just can't seem to pull the trigger. Colleen breezily attends to her locks. Myself and my hair, on the other hand, get all in a tangle. Viva la difference!