After watching Anna Wintour answer 73 random questions, which to the normal person would be exciting, but to her looked truly painful, I got to thinking. Wonder if Anna Wintour asked me to do something?

Now, I’ve never met Anna Wintour, and I’m not sure Caroline Wozniacki has either. Who knows, they could be wearing matching BFF bracelets for all I know. But according to an article, Anna Wintour told Ms. Wozniacki (who is a Danish tennis player … it’s okay, I had to Google her, too) to cut her hair. Really? Cut her hair?

Alas, Caroline did it. She got a hair cut. Why? Because Anna suggested it. My mind exploded. You should only get your hair cut if you want to, or have such bad split ends you need to, not because a powerful stranger told you to do so, right? And how insulting. Why don’t you just tell me I look like crap instead of dancing around the obvious. I was outraged, thoroughly.

And then I remembered … it wasn’t just a powerful stranger that told Ms. Wozniacki to get her hair cut. It was Anna Wintour. The most powerful and most influential woman in the fashion industry. With that being said, she knows her shit. It’s not like your Aunt June from Nebraska who always liked you with a bowl cut.

So then I put myself in Caroline’s shoes. If I got the pleasure of sitting next to Anna Wintour during fashion week, and she actually acknowledged my existence … after I tried to inconspicuously take a selfie with her in the background all the while nerding out, I would almost instantaneously become her bitch. Why? Because it is Anna Wintour. If the woman “suggested” I rip off my dress because it was so ugly her eyes were beginning to burn, I would rip that baby off like it was put together with velcro. No ifs ands or buts. It would be my pleasure. And only because I would have the comfort of knowing because Anna suggested it, I would be applauded for it, instead of laughed off the fashion week runway.

Basically, after a lot of thought and contemplation … I would most likely do whatever Anna Wintour told me to do. Dye my hair blonde. Shave my head. Wear hot pink all day errday. Like the pavement in Times Square. Sign me up. Why? Because well … A. I would be slightly scared of what would happen if I ever disagreed with her and B. after years in the industry, and months and months of putting together a pretty rad magazine … ya gotta trust the woman … unless she asked me to lick the pavement in Times Square, then she truly is a sadistic witch.