Somebody talk some sense into me.

No matter how sane and well-thought-out a decision I'll claim it is, don't let me get a haircut or dye job in London. Please. Somebody stop me. Because when I'm back there on Monday, shacking up in Dalston with two of my best friends, full-on re-immersed in the ten-years-later version of our halcyon days of fashion school, surrounded by the most gorgeous, brilliant, inspirational people I know, I'm going to feel so New York (read: so boring) and I'm going to insist I need new hair.

And, let's face it, I'm just too old for that shit. Plus, I'll have to come back to America in ten days to my grown-up job in a grown-up office with a grown-up door that closes because I need to have serious conversations with people all the time. And who would ever take me seriously with a mop of edgy hair on my head. Streaked blonde. Covering one eye.

Here are some of the things I'll look forward to doing in the UK instead of ruining any chance I'll ever have at professional advancement in the corporate world:

Buying and reading the Mirror, the Daily Mail, the Guardian, and the Evening Standard every day, plus the Times, the Telegraph, and every other hulking paper on Sunday

As many breakfasts (two?) as humanly possible at Brown's Cafe in Oxford's Covered Market

An afternoon at the Pitt Rivers Museum with a swing through to visit the Dodo remains at the OUMNH

Seeing Andrew's Edinburgh warm-up show Friday at the Hen and Chicken

Spending every evening at the George and Dragon with everyone who matters

(Bye New York. I'll probably come back.)