I am sitting in a barber chair, commanding my stylist to make me look like Ellen Barkin.

I’ve brought to my appointment three photographs, each shot from a different angle, of Ms. Barkin as she appears in the new movie, “Oceans 13.”

“Make me look like THAT,” I say with authority.

My stylist and I go way back. He has seen me through highs and lows – from hair heaven to hair hell. He has talked me down from countless mid-summer meltdowns (“Chop it off! I can’t stand it any longer! Cut it all off right NOW!”), much like a veteran cop talks a jumper down from a bridge. He understands that I come from a long line of women who firmly believe that, in the end, it’s all about the hair. That the perfect hairstyle is the key to inner peace and happiness. And that when we die we’d rather be cremated than surrender our precious locks to an unfamiliar funeral parlor cosmetician.

Most importantly, he knows that I know, on some level, I’ll never really look like Ellen Barkin. It’s only her haircut I want to emulate.

I wasn’t always so realistic.

My obsession with celebrity hair started in 1967. I was a gangly, blond, flat-chested seventh-grader with a fascination for all things “mod.” Though I’d never traveled far beyond my own backyard, I was a complete Anglophile, obsessed with London, the Beatles, Carnaby Street and those mysterious “mod” models with huge, painted eyes and pale lips.

Most of all, I adored Twiggy. She was the moddest of the mod, and I wanted to be just like her. One day, I ripped a picture of my idol off the cover of Vogue magazine, marched into my mom’s beauty parlor and demanded, “Make me look like that.” I had every confidence I would walk out of that salon and be mobbed by rabid autograph hounds, astounded that a super model of Twiggy’s ilk would be slumming in a suburban Kansas strip mall.

It didn’t happen. In fact, when I sauntered into school the next day, a 75-year-old nun who hadn’t cracked a smile in 13 years, burst into hysterics. (Obviously, she was NOT a Vogue reader.)

My Twiggy cut was growing out nicely until 1972, when “the shag” craze hit like a spring tornado. My celebrity shag of choice was Jane Fonda’s from the movie “Klute,” which was cooler than, say, Florence Henderson’s from “The Brady Bunch.” Again, I was quite certain that, with my new do, people were sure to mistake me for Hanoi Jane. Maybe they’d even yell “Commie, go home!” at me in my Volkswagen Beetle! How cool would that be?!

Again, no suck luck.

Through the ’70s and ’80s, I continued my quest for the perfect celebrity look: Farrah Fawcett, Princess Di, Linda Evans as Krystle Carrington in “Dynasty.” Mercifully, good sense prevailed and I did not attempt the Bo Derek cornrows of 1979. (I might have been crazed, but I wasn’t crazy.)

Somewhere along the way, I had what family and friends still gravely refer to as “The Perm.” I can’t remember what year it was; I blocked it out. There was no celebrity inspiration that I can recall. But if you saw a photo of me from that dark and desperate time, you’d notice a striking resemblance to Marge Simpson.

I wore a classic Dorothy Hamill wedge to get married, a decision I still regret every time I open the wedding album.

Then, from 1989 (“When Harry Met Sally”) to 1993 (“Sleepless in Seattle”), I occasionally pursued the elusive Meg Ryan do, otherwise known as “bed head.” Eventually, I decided – and this was a life-changing moment for me – that the only person on earth that can pull off the Meg Ryan look is Meg Ryan. I gave up the dream.

Now, here I sit at the age of 51 with three pictures of Ellen Barkin from “Oceans 13” in my hands. I’m a realist now. I don’t expect miracles. Just a few layers and some wispy bangs. An airy summer cut.

And if I leave this salon only to be swept away by George Clooney and Matt Damon, well, what can I say?

It must be the hair.