I let my hair grow long for five years, cut it into a bob of sorts three years ago, and pretty much left it at that. A few variations. A few run-ins with temporary hot pink hair dye. A lighter shade of blonde.

Jen, my outspoken hairstylist friend from the East Coast, approached me after a meeting. She looked at my hair, the kind of look I imagine the Fairy Godmother gives to all ragged godchildren before flicking her wand.

"Yeah, we need to get your hair cut," she said. "I'm tired of looking at this one."

I self-consciously tucked it behind my ear. "Exactly, it's gotten pretty awful hasn't it."

She nodded. (Note: In girlese, you're not supposed to actually agree with these statements but just make casual note and say something like "oh it's not that bad, but it could use some work." Jen, however, gets right to the point. I suppose that's a necessary quality in a hairdresser.)

"Yes, something shorter. I'm thinking three colors. No bob. Definitely no bob. I'll be at your apartment Tuesday night for Idol. Let's do it after that, OK."

It's Friday and I have a new hairstyle. Drastically new, if you ask me: I'm no longer just blonde but...blonde, lighter blonde, and reddish orange, with a punk-pixie bedhead. It's so new that, well, I don't even know what to do with it other than wear the bedhead look all day and glean all sorts of compliments.

Not that I mind.

And not that I'm vain. It's a funny experiment, really. How much about oneself can one change with merely a new hairstyle?

It's silly, really, but now I want to try on the punk look again, wear leg warmers and short skirts, wear better eye makeup, and even lipstick.

And I want to go out and do stuff again. I want to try new things, to throw myself into unexpected situations, to take risks, to be noticed.

Well, it's officially the weekend. I'll kick it off with a meeting, then babysitting, and staying in to watch a movie.

Um. Hmm. Perhaps I need more than a new haircut.