Dearest Connie Britton, my patron saint of hair and fictional husbands (Coach Taylor, obviously, not Dirty John),
You are a glorious creature and whenever I say, “y’all,” I like to think I’m allowing a little bit of your essence into my soul. However, I do not know that an ensemble which appears to be what you’d get if trompe l’oeil overalls had a baby with an Oreo cookie does justice to the majesty that is you.
Think about it,
PS: Your Friday Night Lights aviator glasses were inspirational to me on a personal level.