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January 12, 2006

Nicole Fugman

Okay, Kidman, I appreciate what you're doing with the lipstick, since you have so fervently favored the wan, washed-out, death's-door look lately. Adding some color to the brows? Better, I think. It's But... why so prim? You're dressed as if you are poised to give the palm of my hand twenty lashings with a ruler. I almost detect a trace of an attempt to smile, which might help a little, but you're so paralyzed by Botox or just generally kind of Zenned or zoned out that it doesn't appear to be working. Perhaps you're just hungry?

But my biggest concern is with your hair. We need to discuss this. Whither the red, Nicole? You had such lovely red hair. You made redheads prouder to be red. And then you went on, like, a three-year bleached-blonde bender and are staunchly not coming down from it. Why not? Look how hot you were:

Look how it gives a rosier hue to your fair skin, as opposed to making you look sallow. You've walked back a bit from the complete ice-blond effect, but not enough. See again the above photo and how healthy your hair looks, and how healthy you look -- and it's so nice to see it around your face, hanging softly, instead of yanked back tightly enough to give you a face-lift without the knife and surgeon's fees. You even had more fun with fashion back then, for the most part.

What happened? Did Lars Von Trier break you during Dogville? Or was it dating Lenny Kravitz? Or Steve Bing? Please don't tell me that it was divorcing Crazy Tom Cruise that made you go blonde and slightly emaciated and quite often humorless. Because that's going to make me wish you were still together -- and although that would have spared us the disaster known as TomKat, I really, really don't want to be nostalgic for the days that anybody was with Crazy Tom Cruise. That's just not right. Don't make me go there, Nicole. Don't do it.

You know, I think Keith Urban is a little creepy and sexually ambiguous, but he is an absolute beacon of normalcy compared to those dudes. So use that. Wash the weirdos right out of your hair, along with the peroxide, and go back to the hue that makes you look flush with life rather than like the walking dead.

[If embracing the comparative sanity of Urban doesn't work, then I implore her sister Antonia to strap her down Clockwork Orange-style on the couch and force her to watch Moulin Rouge, because she looked fantastic in that entire movie and maybe, just maybe, it will entice her to rejoin the world of flattering dye jobs. Get on it, Antonia.]

Posted by Heather at 11:12 AM | Permalink

 

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