Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Mom gave me a makeover for my 16th birthday. Kismet gave me Jerry that day and he's been my stylist ever since. On that auspicious day, his first words to me were not, "Hello," or "What do you want from your hair?" No, they were, "How much can I cut off?"

While I might have been too broke in college to afford his services, as soon as I could I went running back to Jerry. Poor Jerry has suffered with me. I'm not wild and crazy - I've had essentially the same cut since I was 15. Sometimes chin-length; sometimes below my shoulders. When I wanted something different a few years ago, we switched from mousse to straightener. Woo hoo. The poor man has been bored.

It's no wonder that this was the first time he took me seriously when I said I was looking to cut it off. I've been babbling about it since September but he knows me better than to agree right away. He took me at my word this time and I haven't ever seen him so excited to cut my hair. He spent a lot of time fussing with the cut and the styling. Some of the tools he used remind me of dog grooming implements for stripping undercoats. I am well and truly shorn. OK - it's not Natalie Portman bald or Winona Ryder wisps; I don't have the making of a gamine in me...but for me, it's short.

It's convertible hair. Now I can truly enjoy the sensation of the wind in my face and in my hair without nasty hair snarls or eye lacerations. No more ponytails or hats. Oh, I also switched from blonde to red for real now but that's not nearly as exciting as a new cut. The real test will be whether I can make it look ok when it's my turn to style it -- and whether Joe can overcome his dislike of short hair.