My name is Lindsey, and I have a fivehead.

I mentally guffawed through this entire Pajiba review of Black Snake Moan — which I still have not seen and probably will not see until Netflix mails it to me some time this summer, when things really are hotter down South — and absolutely lost it during this part near the top:

If I had known that all it took to get a movie financed and distributed was to hire an alabaster starlet with body dysmorphic disorder and a forehead that looks like an infant crowning and then throw her in a pair of Daisy Dukes and ask her to thrash about like a goddamn wolf in heat, then I’d be motherfucking Steven Spielberg, now wouldn’t I?

Ah, that's good stuff. But the best part is clearly the description of Christina Ricci's forehead: An infant crowning.

Then in the comments, some other large-craniumed soul spoke up and termed such an affliction "having a fivehead," which is pretty much the best thing ever. Today at least. Because I swear to god, those of you with normal foreheads have no idea just what it's like to walk around with literal acres upon acres of space separating your eyebrows from your hairline. Some of us keep our hair draped down in our faces to lessen the impact. We get bangs and layers cut, but as soon as the wind blows, the jig is up.

There's no graceful way to hide a fivehead.

You just try not to let people take your picture from slightly above you. That tends to scare children.