Shorn Again
My friend Hillary Johnson collects fab heads of hair -- her own:

A couple of years ago, I became a serious collector of haircuts. While I can't afford to buy my clothes at Gucci or Chanel, or hang works by Ed Ruscha or Richard Diebenkorn on my dining room wall, a haute couture haircut is relatively affordable. Why bother living in Los Angeles if you're not going to participate in at least some aspect of the city's vanity fair? I'm a big believer in strategic luxury. A $200 haircut, for instance, can go a long way toward compensating for a $14,000 economy car. Think about it: If you had to choose between a Ford Escort and regular haircuts by Laurent D at PrivÈ, or driving a Volkswagen Passat to Supercuts, which package would you select?

I'll take the dramatic clash of the cheap and fabulous over a steady diet of mediocrity any day. So after several years of wearing my hair long, I showed up on Laurent's doorstep. Laurent doesn't cut your hair at a haircutting station but in front of a full-length mirror set up like a stage. This is because the haircut is more like a performance or magic show, complete with two assistants who hand Laurent the various instruments he requires, including a razor, thinning shears and scissors. His process is improvisational. After cutting off the long stuff, he set about changing the texture of my hair, thinning it at the top, then razoring in layers and sculpting them into short, foamy waves.

The end product was a head of short hair that somehow looked like a splendid up-doóit curled charmingly around my ears and pooled at the base of my neck in soft whorls. It was an impressionistic masterpieceóand technically brilliant, for when I washed it the next day, it looked just the same. And the next week. For the next three months it grew out charmingly, and for three months after that it gracefully accepted my whittling here and there with school scissors.

School scissors -- surely, the next trend after garden shears for Hollywood hair. You heard it here.