Who doesn’t love Meg Ryan? I mean the 1990s Meg — not this new, Botoxed, Hollywood hating meanie Meg. I have no idea how many times I’ve watched French Kiss in the last 15 years of my life. It’s one of those that you can’t turn when it’s on TNT at 4 in the afternoon on a Sunday, and one of the only movies I can quote along with beginning to end: “Those French. They hate us, they smoke, they have a whole relationship with dairy products I don’t understand.”
ANYWAY — the point is — I have always loved Meg, and her hair especially. It’s always tousled just so, in a cute tomboyish but totally feminine sort of way. When I was young, I always hoped I would someday have the guts to cut off my very long hair and try it out, to see if it made me feel spunky and brave — like my favorite heroines in You’ve Got Mail or French Kiss. My freshman year of college, I did it. I walked in the salon with hair to the center of my back, and I left with a pixie-ish bob. Not long after, a boy I had been secretly admiring since the first day of college, a boy named Ben, *sigh* stopped to tell me how much he liked my short, blonde hair. That it reminded him of Meg Ryan. I felt like the prettiest girl in the world at that moment.
Yesterday I went back to my Meg lovin’ ways and brought in a picture of her from City of Angels for Nikki to try:
I’ve not had short layers in a long time, and I feel brand new since my curls (my doodles, as Ben calls them) are back for the summer time. He’s stopped to kiss me every time we bump into each other in the kitchen or the office or the hallway or the stairs. I think long hair is overrated. Oui, monsieur.