When I was fourteen, my best friend decided to lop off her blond, curly locks. I supported her decision. I went with her to the salon. I walked home with her afterward and tried to reassure her, through her sobs, that she did not look like a boy. Not only that, I then persuaded her to dye her hair (what was left of it) bright red. Clearly, I am an asshole. (What can I say? She had bigger boobs that I had. I was just trying to level the playing field.)
The lesson here is that if you get a bad haircut, don't come running to me to make you feel better. I'll make the situation worse. Instead, can I suggest that you turn to the Over-Thinker? She will convince you to send her a picture of your horrible, flippy, weather girl hair and then get her graphic designer husband to create this masterpiece:
She will also give you a weather girl name. Until the hair grows out, you can call me Sunny McDeweyrain.