At this rate, I'll be bald by November

A trim.

After impulsively green lighting a seven-inch chop seven weeks ago, I intended to ask at the outset of yesterday afternoon's appointment - my first touch-up since my long-to-short transition - for nothing more than a routine trim. A quarter, maybe half inch. After all, my hair had only just begun to accommodate a behind-the-ear tuck, not to mention allow for a more workout-friendly, less Tom Cruise in The Last Samurai looking half-ponytail.

Anything more than a cleaning up of the ends would be wholly impractical, I decided.

But like last time, I had a lady on the brain and no matter how hard I fought against her, that cute little smile and wispy, longish pixie just wouldn't let me be.

And thank God for that, because I am so very much in love with my new Katie-Holmes-cum-Audrey-Tautou 'do -- a 'do whose channelling powers are already proving helpful in my me-want-me-get inner dialogue:

"It's been nine weeks, and I still can't go five minutes without thinking about those Jean-Michel Cazabat Vita pumps..."

"Think, Johanna, think -- what would Katie do?"

Slipping into vacant-eyed submission...
"What do you mean there was 'life' in my lifeless look? Really? Damn. Okay, onto Plan B."

"Channeling Audrey, channeling Audrey..."

(batting eyelashes)
"Donnez-moi mes chaussures fo**ues, s'il vous plait."

Because I owe all this short-haired magic to him, please offer your most sincere golf claps to my stylist Rodney at the Andre Chreky Salon on the corner of 16th and K. Yes, the one next door to the Burger King. Whether you favor pixie short, a shoulder-length bob or long and glamorous Hollywood hair -- Rodney is your man. Loquacious he's not, but what he lacks in a penchant for small-talk he more than makes up for with pure, efficient skill; he's deft, he's decisive and he will blow your 'effing mind with his perfect blow-out.