By Emma S.
I will see any Drew Barrymore movie. And by any, I mean every. The cute-little-girl ones (E.T.), the sexy and wild teenager ones (Poison Ivy), the disturbed pixie ones (Mad Love), the comedy-gold ones (Never Been Kissed), the big-budget ones (Charlie’s Angels), and the weird ones (Donnie Darko). I think you can trace almost every haircut I’ve ever had to one of Drew’s. I went to see Whip It!, her directorial debut, the day it opened. My feelings toward Drew feel less like a superfan’s and more like those of a besotted younger sister. I forgive her for giving me the impression that overdoing the lip liner and over-plucking one’s eyebrows were OK—it was the ’90s! I’m always going to be secretly impressed that she flashed David Letterman, and that she went out with Jamie Walters—even if she’s embarrassed about those things in retrospect, they still seem cool to me. She makes me want to have ombre hair and wear hats and go on vacations with my girlfriends and make movies and not be ashamed of anything I’ve ever done. Drew Barrymore, with your glorious chin and your sideways smile, you’ll always be the one for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go see a movie about some whales trapped in the ice. DB 4 EVA.