Dance, dance, dance
Bar None, my magazine staff's occasional after-work haunt and home of $2 Bud Light drafts, has dancing on the weekends. No co-workers this time, and my favorite bouncer wasn't there either. A boy in a red shirt almost danced with me a couple times. (What did I do to scare him away?) And I danced very briefly with a sketchy boy. (I didn't really want to dance with you in the first place, so no, you can't put your hand on my hip or, um, that there. Thanks, bye.) Except for the sketchy boy, it was a high-quality evening.

Good-bye, hair
My hair has never been this short. It doesn't even reach my chin, and it's even shorter in back. It's what the stylists call a graduated bob. But I like it. A woman named Dominique from Downer's Grove, Illinois cut my hair. (She owns her own salon, Sun Moon Earth. My Chicagoland readers should pay her a visit.) Thanks for the free cut, Bumble and Bumble. We'll see if it passes the real test when I have to style it myself in the morning. Gulp.