I try to avoid most reality shows. It seems that they're thriving on what used to be the subject matter of artists, now the foundation of television, The Seven Deadly Sins. Plus the ability to effortlessly reproduce, which should be the Eighth. I call it littering, big time.
Be that as it may, I have a weakness for Makeover shows. If I was given a week in Manhattan, $5000 to spend on clothes for moi, and a haircut by a guy (I'm also a sucker for a cockney accent) who usually charges $500 to $800, would I blubber when some hair fell on the floor? It'll never grow again? It's spun of gold? What? Even Hercules didn't cry.
To get to the point here, I remembered taking my teenage girls, they were only a year apart, to Sassoons on Fifth Ave (Madison?) for a classy haircut. All of $25 each. Well, it was a long time ago.
I've painted them a dozen times over the years, but I loved the shape of that particular haircut, so I had to paint them again.