It's all about the hair...
I can't stand that Bravo show, Blow Out. I really can't. Not the taut-faced, self-involved Jonathan ("dude, it's about the hair"). Not the "rocker chick" who breastfeeds her kid all over the salon ("should I let my baby STARVE???"), not the fake-boobs skank with the immobile forehead who forces her plastic surgeon to consult with everyone in the salon ("but I haven't had anything above my neck done YET"), not the 'mo who whines about the other stylists, not the assistant attached to Jonathan's ass, not the name-dropping queens, not his stupid ass girlfriend (watching her FEED HIM SOUP was repulsive), not the two women marketing his product who act like high-strung, brain-damaged chihuahuas.
No, I wasn't trapped under my sofa just out of reach of the remote during the marathon last weekend. But I'm watching it, obviously. Maybe I just like to feel superior. Maybe I'm drawn to 30-minute discussions about hair products. Maybe I like men who are crybabies after all. Or maybe something is WRONG with me.
Seriously, I almost bought the Jonathan hair products on Sephora last weekend. I caught myself talking about the show in the office on Monday. Consider this my plea for help. Somebody stop me, for crying out loud, before I get extensions and an upper lip implant. Make it go away so I can stop being alternately repulsed by the show and disgusted with myself. I am weak and cannot summon the will to turn it off. Damn Bravo and their TV transmission mind control. Damn them to hell.