Willow Smith's Kideo Porn

I am Willow, and I am wearing a mop on my head. I am weeping all the way to the bank.

Years ago, I ditched my old mop for a Swiffer ®, and I’ve always wondered what happened to it. I thought maybe it hooked up with that rake I swear I used to own.  But yesterday, I found that scary-assed mop. Willow Smith, the young spawn of Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith, has it on her head. Either that girl has been letting Amanda Bynes do her hair, or she’s wearing my fucking mop. Why she’s wearing my mop, I don’t know. What I do know is that her parents must be so busy licking their wounds over their recent failures, After Earth and HawthoRNe,  that they are oblivious to the horror show going on in their midst.

Willow just released her new song, “Summer Fling,” which is getting all kinds of play because of the adult-themed lyrics and a just-plain-wrong video. In the vid, Willow hangs with a group of clearly older freaks…I mean teens, especially her “boyfriend,” a cradle-robber at whom she shoots never-ending sultry and suggestive looks. They fiddle with each other’s hands, and cuddle under the trees, and he scoops her up like a young bride, and they cavort and shit while she sings, “…we got tonight, oh, baby...” and “…it’s just a couple of months, but we do it anyway.” What the?!

Yeah. She’s TWELVE.

The last video this scuzzy was shown as evidence in the R. Kelly trial. What the fucking fuck are her parents thinking? If I found my 12-year-old daughter dancing around in some barely disguised kiddie muck like this, I’d slap her ass into last Tuesday, and whoever produced that crap would never be able to find his severed penis again. Somebody needs to slow that ride down before Willow finds herself featured on Teen Mom 4. I don’t want to see my mop humiliated like that.

What My Hair Says...

My hair says, "Sex? What's that?"

In one of my beloved weekly magazines, there’s a page devoted to what one’s choices or characteristics reflect personality-wise. You know what I mean: what your favorite television sleuth or love song or restaurant type says about “who you are” and whatnot. This week, the insightful tidbits concern hair color. Before the breakdown of each hair color, there is a brief discussion that mentions how the hue of your hair sends critical signals about you to the world. All I know is that my hair color says “$8.99 a box at Wal Mart.” Or if I wait long enough, “What the fuck is this silver shit coming out of my head?”

The article takes a whole lot for granted, namely that any of us know what our natural hair color actually is. I barely let my roots escape before I’m hunkered down in the privacy of my own bathroom mixing up some ammonia-free, hair-coating concoction. (And side note, if you dab a little conditioner around your hair line before coloring, you won’t end up with those dead-giveaway skin stains. So don’t say I never taught you anything.) If you happen to remember the color “you were born with” and you want to know what personality you’re supposed to have, all the info you need is right here. 

Blondes are “spirited and whimsical.” Blonde hair reminds most of us of childhood days at the beach when the world was still intriguing and sparkly like a shell or an ocean crest or handcuffs. True blonde is for babies. On older people, blonde hair is about as believable as Amanda Bynes’s latest tweet-excuse for her bizarro behavior. Some aging celebrities just can’t seem to let nature takes its course. Take Robert Redford. I know he’s as beach-bum as they come, but if his light locks don’t come out of a very expensive bottle, I’m a fucking virgin. Okay. Probably not the best adjective for virgin. But on a second side note, what in God’s name happened to Redford’s face? Is he part Sharpei or what? 

According to the hair article, redheads are “empathetic and fiery.” Since fewer people in the world have red hair than any other color, there is something special about auburn tresses. Redheads may appear hot-tempered because they seem to be blushing all over. But since less than 5% of the universal population sprouts real red, most of the flat-out gorgeous shades of red out there aren’t fooling anybody. And you know what they say about the “carpet” not matching the “drapes” although for the life of me, I can’t figure out who they are. All you have to do is sneak a peek at any ginger’s privates, and you’ll see that most of them aren’t natural auburns. Bonus: it’s a great way to find out what life in the pokey for a sex crime is like. 

Now, brunettes are supposed to be “ambitious and affable.” That means that folks with brown hair are simultaneously friendly and clawing their way up the corporate or social ladder. I don’t know how those two qualities co-exist without some degree of schizophrenia, so yeah. If your loved ones have chocolate hair, it might be time to lock up the Ginsus.

If you have black hair, you’re “secretive and independent.” In other words, you are creepy and probably have sex with a dead body you keep stashed in your crawl space. Or Elvira called, and she wants her wig back. 

Silver foxes are supposed to be “real and cosmopolitan.” Yeah. Right. This description implies that you don’t want to cover up who you truly are and you are elegant, like some sterling tea set. Pssshhh. The truth is that if you have silvery strands, you are just too damned lazy to get your hair colored. You pad around in your pajama bottoms and some tattered slippers and a hole-y t-shirt with Spaghetti-O’s ® stains from 1973. Or you make a lot of hemp macramé and smell like Patchouli. Or you’re on life support. 

To be honest, I’ve fit into almost all of the hair color categories at one time or another. I tend to go dark in the fall and winter, and then lighten up for spring and summer. My first stint as a redhead was for a character I played in a stage play. Now, I haven’t purchased black hair dye because of that “causes cancer in lab animals” scare. And I’ll be damned if I’m going around with Christmas tree tinsel on my head.

I don’t know. I haven’t reached the point yet at which I am willing to accept whatever really grows out of my scalp. There is no telling what it might be. And since like most people, I’ve exhibited all of the magazine article’s personality traits of every hair color at various times, my personality indicators are no help in determining my true color. I give up. I guess what my hair really says is that I care enough about my appearance to shell out nearly ten dollars every couple of months so that I don’t have to be reminded of my mortality every freaking time I look in the mirror. And that’s saying a lot.