Quick, somebody get Vidal Sassoon. Who has the number for Frédéric Fekkai?

Or should we call Jennifer Aniston?

Who is the proper first responder when the emergency involves Frizz?

I am not talking about the way your bangs turn to crinkle fries at the first hiss of humidity. That is not an emergency. Trust me. I personally look like a Hobbit from April through October.

I am not worried about frizz. I am worried about Frizz.

Her legal name is Ms. Frizzle. That’s what’s printed on her Real Simple issues and Omaha Steaks catalogues. Only her friends get to call her “Frizz.”

But that’s just the problem. Frizz has discovered friendship, and now her whole look is at risk.

Getting shaggy and snuggly with people is terribly off-brand for Ms. Frizzle.

This is the sleek, formal cat who once got grossed out if she found a human hair in her cubby. If the world was a noggin, Ms. Frizzle drew a part between herself and humanity, with not one purr of pomade crossing the line.

It did not matter that our species was the style crew who saved her from a severe neck wound. If there was a shampoo to scrub us out of her roots, she would order a gallon.

But when Ms. Frizzle wasn’t paying attention, an invisible dye giggled down into her follicles.

Dangerous things can happen if you fall asleep in the salon chair or the cat cubby. You might end up with a perm or a permanent change of perspective. You might doze off in dignity and wake up in delight.

It might have something to do with cookies.

Far be it from me to say that a style icon can be bribed with baked goods. All I can say is that, one day, Ms. Frizzle was dour under the dryers with Lily. The next, her tight curl of concern had relaxed.

What came between? Cookies.

Alright, their legal name is “treats.” But I am telling you, words matter, and the word “cookie” made Ms. Frizzle’s fur stand on end.

“Treat” sounds like a transaction. “Cookie” sounds like childhood. “Treat” sounds like a plain elastic. “Cookie” sounds like a pink scrunchie. Ms. Frizzle heard “cookies?” and answered, “call me Frizz.”

From there, things moved faster than a “quarter inch trim” that turns into Jim Carrey bangs.

Snip snip, down fell Frizz’s defenses. Snip snip, there went the tight knot of pet-me-not. Snip snip, out fell the braid Frizz had made with Fear and Sorrow. Snip snip, all that remained was bald, beautiful friendship, as the petting and purring continued long after the last cookie.

But this is where things get really out of control.

It seems Frizz is contagious.

First, Frizz let us pet her on account of the cookies. Now, Lily lets us pet her on account of the Frizz.

We can hardly blame Lily. We’ve all seen a style that looks so good on someone else, we think it just might make us beautiful, too. This is how I ended up requesting “The Rachel” at the tender age of twelve. (This did not end well. See above re: Hobbits.)

Lily has been beautiful without trying every day of her life. But nothing is more flattering than love, and it looked so good on Frizz, Lil just had to try, and…well, now I’m calling her “Lil,” and you can see where all this is heading.

On second thought, forget that emergency call. Free the Frizz.

Let this style sweep the nation.

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