Roald, love, I have your wand. No, that is not an euphemism. You must have left it by mistake. You also seemed to have taken my hairbrush. Now, I know you love me but I do not expect you to create some sort of shrine in your closet with my hair as the centerpiece. That's just taking it a little too far, and I don't like my men creepy, no matter how attractive they may be. Just return it and I promise I will forget all about your stalkerish behavior. I am forgiving like that. I will even supply you with coffee to help your hangover.

I, surprisingly, feel fine, but I don't generally get hangovers. Maybe because I don't usually drink that much, but I like to think that it has something to do with my superior genes. Unfortunately, said superior genes don't give me the ability to cut hair. My mother wanted me to spend the other afternoon with the daughter of one of her friends, and she was just the most unfortunate little thing. Really, I felt depressed just looking at her. I do not do depression, so I had to try to fix her up. While a little make-up and a dress that fit did do wonders, the haircut I attempted was not especially well done. But it was an improvement. And she can always get it fixed. The moral of the story is that I should stick with designing fabulous clothes and leave the hair styling to the professionals. I am quite alright with that.