For the past 17 years or so, I've been known as a man of hair. Not expertly-coifed hair, mind you, but just hair. An excess of hair, if you will. The length has moved around over the years (being generally shorter after stopping off at the salon and longer thereafter), and early on I did experiment a couple times with a perm, but for the most part we're talking about long, straight hair worn in a basic ponytail.

For the last 10 years I have followed the custom of getting a haircut just before attending a wedding. As we were hitting about one such event a year, this pretty much kept the split ends at bay and helped me stay away from the scissors--which made me in infinitely happier person.

After moving to the New South, we hit something of a drought in weddings. I went more than a couple years without getting in the chair before having my hair cut a year ago October. But this spring I neglected my duty and didn't get a trim before this year's particular blessed event. My wife Barbara has been on my case to get a trim ever since.

Around the same time as the wedding, a good friend of ours was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Disease, which is a fancy word for cancer. She has long hair, and her greatest concern about the treatment (apart from important matters such as survival, which should be taken as a given) is that she might lose those locks. She plays soccer with my wife Barbara, and many of the women on the team with long hair (which isn't exactly a lot, but still a decent number) have talked about donating their hair in her honor--if "honor" is in fact the right way to put it.

Very quickly I realized that I a real opportunity here. I could do something for my friend (in an indirect way, but still) and I could satisfy Barbara's incessant demands that I get rid of some of my hair. Of course the fact that I decided to do this didn't exactly get me off my butt and down to the clip joint. That required another month or so of nagging from Barbara. But I finally gave in, and yesterday afternoon I plunked myself down in a chair and told the hairdresser to whack off the excess.

She wanted to know why. I told her, and she immediately became much more friendly. "That's so nice you do that for your friend," she said in an accent redolent of her native Portugal (It's funny; I know all sorts of things about this woman whom I'd never met before, but not her name). She wrapped a rubber band around my hair and called over a couple of the other hairdressers for a conference. After a few minutes of discussion, they determined the best place to make the cut. She repositioned the rubber band and snipped.

I want to say that I've never been afraid of having short hair. I simply don't like sitting in a chair while someone with scissors dances around my head. Dentists don't bother me at all, but I can't stand the haircutting experience. Which is a problem when you're shifting from a long, one-length style to one that is short and layered. That initial snip is just the beginning.

She asked me what I wanted, and I told her truthfully that I had no idea. I still wanted some length in back and on top--I've never had a mullet, and I never will. Past that, she could do what she wanted. For the next half-hour she worked, clipping away. Two and three-inch lengths of hair fell to the floor. As she'd prudently asked me to remove my glasses, I wasn't entirely sure what she was doing. She also was doing her best to distract me with small talk. Well, maybe not so small. Turns out her husband died young--from cancer. She knows all sorts of people with cancer, as do I. She asked about my family, if they knew I was doing this--my 15-month-old son Max didn't--and what I did for a living.

After more cutting and some shaving--almost a half-hour's worth of work--she had me put on my glasses and take a look. Staring back at me was the dad from Pump Up the Volume, except that the guy in the movie had longer hair than me. After some consideration, I realized I looked more like Jon Auer (he once of the Posies) or maybe the author (of The Ice Storm, etc.) Rick Moody. This isn't bad, of course, but rather sudden. Disconcertingly so that way.

I paid my $15 (including a $5 tip) and went home. Max was momentarily confused by my new appearance, but once I started speaking he didn't worry too much about funny-looking Daddy. So far, so good.

My face was hot. This wasn't from embarrassment, but rather the fact that since I almost always wore my hair in a ponytail, it was off my face and my neck. This new style is all around my face and falls on my neck. Significant discomfort. Also, I realized that I when I had long hair I had a habit of sweeping loose hairs off my face. After reaching up for hairs that weren't quite there, I had to tell myself to leave my hair alone. It wasn't going anywhere, after all.

There is something nice about not having to comb your hair while you condition it in the shower (so as to keep from dealing with too many tangles afterward), and my ponytail elastic budget can be cut from $2 a year to zip. I'm not entirely happy with how it looks, but some of that is still the extremity of the change. I'm sure I'll get used to my new do in a week or two.

Best of all, I know that the next time I see my friend, she'll laugh. And that will make it all worthwhile.

Jon Worley figures the next time he hits a Durham Bulls game, the ticket-taker won't tell him he looks like "that stuttering drunk guy on TV; you know, the one with the loud-mouthed wife."