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See, I LOVE wigs. I am a huge fan of wigs! When I'm an old lady, I plan to wear a rotating series of wigs: platinum blonde for Monday bingo nights; long, dark and curly for Tuesday's dialysis appointment; short and red and flippy like Ginger from Gilligan's Island for Wednesday night's cocktails at the Assisted Living Centre with my girls; a giant Afro for Thursdays, when the pool boy comes. Et cetera. And let's face it: you're a babe. However, you're also a babe who's got loads of cash and more contacts in the hair-and-makeup world than the rest of us would make in twenty lifetimes. So why aren't the edges of your wig EVER EVER EVER properly blended into your forehead? It's not like you don't have the acreage up there, and we know you know that.
CONTACT INFORMATION
Use don't abuse (ie. adding me to your site's mailing list). And for the love of God please stop sending mp3 files of your music. I am not Clive Davis and to be frank I probably don't want to hear the shit anyway. You should also know that I take my slow, precious time responding to email. And sometimes I don't respond at all. Fresh.crunkjuice@gmail.com
Fresh@myspace.com
