The other day, I chopped off my hair.

NO! Not Brittany Spearsish, (though I can't say I didn't consider shaving it all off, as it was twisting itself into a noose and choking me at night) instead, I pulled my usual - I called the salon, requested an appointment, and when she politely asked when I'd like to be seen, I said, now.

It was 11:30am, on a Friday, and usually? I see the owner.

Like that was going to happen.

Instead, the poor girl that answered my desperate plea for coif assistance, did that audible gasp that is usually followed by something rude - and bless her heart, she managed to suck in a deep breath, and offer me Sarah, at 12:30. She may have suspected that I am not above going to the salon, draping myself hither and yon over whatever prone surface is available, and waiting for an opening. Okay, I admit, I've done that too - only not at this salon. They don't have a sofa like J's salon does, and, she appreciates the humor of the needy migraine sufferer who, curled up on the sofa, away from the sun, waits in agony for her to cut off the offending tresses adding to cranial pressure. Plus also? She has fabulous coffee.

Anyway. The point: I chopped my hair. And I adore it. Fox wanted a mowhawk, but that hardly cries out Serious Partner In Financial Firm, who Tackles Great And Sundry Business Succession Planning and Exit Strategies. Instead, it's sexy and cute all at the same time, not a pixie, no Kate Plus Eight weirdness going on, it's close to something I had in college, and shortly after I was divorced - all those times when I felt in control, pretty -

I feel like ME again.

Sure, there's a downside: the Legendary Bedhead From Hell has indeed returned.

That is why God made pink Red Sox hats.