One of the (many, many) fashion magazines I have a subscription to is Lucky. At first, I was psyched because, busy chica that I am, I don't have time to shop in EVERY store.

But I have come to the conclusion that Lucky, The Magazine About Shopping, is actually Lucky, The Magazine About Taking the Joy out of Shopping. Dare I say that the magazine, touted as a tome for people who love shopping, is actually best targeted at people who find shopping distasteful? It's a magazine for people who are too busy (I imagine them tanning by the pool) to actually go through the grueling process of, um, SHOPPING.

Don't get me wrong, I love that, by flipping through a few pages, I can find 70 nearly identical pairs of shoes at 70 different prices. But after several issues of Lucky, I realized that if I actually went out and bought one of those pairs of shoes, I would simply have the same pair of shoes as hundreds of other readers.

Within months of their purchase -- possibly before I even had the occasion to wear them -- my lovely shoes would be so last season. What's worse, people would know! Because while other fashion rags such as Vogue highlight the "It" shoe, ensuring that discerning readers know which look WON'T have people asking what one is wearing and where one got it, because it's what everyone's wearing just then, Lucky exposes myriad shoe possibilities to the masses.

For instance, last year there was this Louis Vuitton satin pump that I lovedlovedloved, but what I didn't love so much was that it was splashed prominently across the glossy pages of every single fashion magazine, thereby guaranteeing that, were I to wear it in subsequent seasons, everyone (not just hardcore fashionistas) would recognize it as being soooooo Fall 2004. Also, there was the fact that, owing to pregnancy, my feet looked like close cousins of the Hamburger Helper hand, and also the fact that the shoes cost $700. But I digress! Imagine that I had fallen in love with a shoe that wasn't the season's "It" shoe. Years ago, before the ascent of Lucky, nobody would have known where I got this fantastic shoe, nor, a few years hence, exactly how old my shoe was. But now, with so many shoes getting so much exposure, it's impossible to guarantee that my carefully-selected shoes, chosen (as always) to look stylish yet somewhat timeless, won't be identified while walking down the street.

Ditto for clothing. And, because it's not enough to simply showcase Edwardian velvet jackets or expose readers to a variety of menswear-inspired trousers, Lucky will show you how to artfully craft a vintage or bohemian look not by digging through thrift stores or traveling the world, but by shopping at major stores and spending major bucks. Worse yet, you will learn where to find doppelgangers of Sienna Miller's cowboy boots online, and then copy her "unique" style.

Maybe I'm a shopping snob, but that's because I cut my teeth on magazines like Vogue, which encourage readers to wear the season's pieces in their own, individual way. Women like Sarah Jessica Parker and Chloe Sevigny, who clearly don't utilize Lucky, are held up as people to be emulated (even though they dress like a tranny at a tea party and a cracked-out streetwalking granny, respectively) because they put some thought and effort into their outfits. Does that thought or effort translate into good fashion? Well, no. But an A for effort, right? That's the whole point of fashion -- carefully assembling spunky, individualistic outfits, the better to be mocked by those of us with the good sense to wear something chic, black and timeless.

And just as Lucky is antithetical to the idea (well, my idea) of fashion, so it is in diametric opposition to the concept of shopping. As I've told the man of Casa WYD many a time, shopping has very little to do with buying. It is an experience.

You see, shopping is defined by Webster's as such:

1 a : to examine goods or services with intent to buy b : to hunt through a market in search of the best buy

2 : to make a search : HUNT

Now, tell me, in what way is Lucky remotely about examining goods or hunting? In my world, this entails going to a number of retail establishments and sifting through racks and stacks of goods, inspecting seams and soles, feeling the fabric and (best of all) trying things on for hours. Where is the fun or the creativity or the honor in letting the editors of Lucky pick out your next season's wardrobe? How can someone who actually enjoys shopping be OK with making their purchase decisions based on someone else's aesthetic and research? And how is it OK that everyone else, without having thumbed through seven different fashion magazines or watched coverage of Fashion Week, will be buying the same coveted items as you?

(I know, I know, this all sounds very silly coming from someone who owns a million nearly-identical items of black and khaki-colored clothing. Hell, some are wholly identical, because I loved them so much I couldn't bear not to have "backup pants." Really, I love to shop! Just for black and khaki things, that's all.)

Don't get me wrong, I will still be reading Lucky. Since my darling daughter doesn't believe in napping and rises promptly at or before 7 each morning, I don't have as much time for shopping or even to read all my fashion rags in a timely manner (in fact, this month's issue of Vogue is still in its wrapper). If I am to remain on top of the selection of wedge heels or take advantage of Spring 2006's schoolgirl styles, I can count on Lucky to provide a Cliff's Notes version of what would normally require hours of fashion research and days of shopping.

Of course, if my shopping activity (or lack thereof) of late holds steady, I won't be seen in my local mall for months. But, since I haven't been using Lucky to make my purchasing decisions, nobody can tell when or where I got any of my clothes, which are chic, black and timeless.

Every few years, I develop an ambitious plan to grow my hair out. Visions of a lustrous, flowing mane like the ones in shampoo commercials dance before my eyes. Memories of the waist-length waves I sported as a small girl tantalize my follicles. Vogue's assertion that long is the latest thing is a much more attainable mandate than, say, dolling myself up in Nicolas Ghesquiere's Edwardian jewelry. Of course, these fantasies of luxuriant waist-brushing tresses are but a carrot on a stick, for as any grrl with shoulder-length hair knows, it is nigh but impossible to grow one's hair out.

It starts off easily enough. With each passing week, your hair get a little bit longer and you pose in front of the mirror with your new, longish locks, thinking "This will look great after a couple more inches." But then you hit what sailors used to call the doldrums. Your progress slows, and things get ugly. Very ugly.

There is a certain length, which is different for everybody, at which your growing-out hair looks terrible. It's not just that you need a touchup, because even if you trim the tresses, they lie wrong or fall at just the wrong place and make your face look fat or drawn or asymmetrical.

But lo! By some miracle of self-restraint, I managed to pass that point sometime last spring and now have the Rapunzellike locks I so coveted.

Therein lies the rub: Once you reach a goal, you sometimes realize that the journey was more exciting than the destination. This is one of those goals.

To be sure, my luxuriant mane is a thing of beauty. My highlights are so gradual that my hair looks completely naturally sunkissed, and when I've blown it out and primped with the appropriate products, my 'do is long, smooth and fit for my Cosmo cover shot.

But now that I have long hair, I realize exactly why, 20 long years ago, I begged my grandmother to chop it off while my parents were gone (hooray for grandmas!).

Sure, on special occasions it looks great. But on days when I don't have 20 minutes to blowdry it in sections using the ubiquitous round brush, my new long locks are a gorgeous pain in my ass.

Option No. 1 is that I blowdry it anyway and arrive late to whatever I am doing. Anyone who knows me at all knows that's not going to happen. Ever.

Option. No. 2 is that I let my hair air dry. This means it will be straight on the top, and then somewhere around my ears it will turn into straggly little waves. But lest you think that could possibly be cute, in what fashion magazines might call a "beachy" or "tousled" or "bedhead" way, let me remind you that it is not a deliberately unkempt look that requires pounds of various thickening and smoothing products. This is, literally, leaving my hair to its own devices. And its devices are pretty heavy on the flyaways. Thus, Option No. 2 cannot be employed if I am to show my face in public. (Not to mention that this option gets really tangly, and what more fun is there for a baby than to grab a good handful of tangle and yank?)

Therefore, at least three days out of the week, I am forced to exercise Option No. 3, which is the lazy bun or ponytail. Sometimes I class it up by caring enough to wrap some extra hair around my elastic so it looks like I at least tried, but most days it is your basic "I stepped out of the shower and put my hair back" updo.

Which brings me to the point of this post: How ironic is it that I spent all this time and energy growing out my hair until I had the luxuriant locks I so aspired to, only to promptly stick my gorgeous long hair up in a bun every damn day of the week?

Thus, I will soon be cutting my hair. Doubtless, the minute I have my old shoulder-length cut, I will begin afresh my quest for beautiful sheets of long flowing hair.

In honor of the recent Canadian Thanksgiving and upcoming American Thanksgiving, here's some seasonal cuteness for you all:

And this one is especially for Sean.