I am going to have my hair cut off today. All of it, well, no, not shaved, but off. I haven't had it cut for almost three years and even then it was long and I just had a trim. It's down my back now and I can wear a single braid over my shoulder, but I never mastered the skill of a French braid, and I guess now I never will. I made the appointment a week ago so I've had time to think about it and get used to the idea. Soon I will be light-headed.

People have been quite tactful about my hair, so tactful I can tell they don't like it. One daughter simply asked what I planned to do with my hair at a time when I didn't have a plan. When one person, whom I hadn't seen in several years, exclaimed at it, I said "I'm channelling my grandmother," as if that explained it. I guess it did. My Icelandic grandmother never cut her hair as far as I know. She had marvellous thick, glossy, chestnut-coloured hair with a wing of silver in it for a long time before she went white. I guess I wanted to see if my hair would still grow; I know some people whose hair will not grow past a certain length.

Years ago, when my husband went into the theatre business, he grew a beard so the actors would be more accepting of him, he hoped. I thought he looked great and my face gradually developed some resistance to the bristle. Our minister's wife refused to sit beside us at church because she thought he look too maverick, too bohemian for that staid community. He asked me then if I thought he should shave it off. "It's not for me to say," I replied. "You'll know when the time comes." And one morning he knew, and shaved.

So with my hair. Last week I knew, and made the appointment. Isn't it nice when a decision comes to you, ready-made and certain? That doesn't happen often.

First, Pollyanna's boyfriend's name is Jimmy Bean. Second, thank you for the jokes. They didn't help as much as the sunshine. I went for a walk yesterday afternoon, a walk in the sun, and even though the temperature is still below normal for this time of year, I enjoyed it. You know that song of John Denver's, may he rest in peace: "Sunshine almost always makes me happy/Sunshine almost always makes me high." I think that's how it goes. It's a healthy kind of high. Beats a martini. The humorous writer Russell Baker said you should never drink a martini more than 50 feet from your own bed. I think it was also he who said there is about as much happiness in a bottle of wine as anyone can bear. Something like that. Well, when the sun goes over the yardarm, what can you do?

I had to stop then because my mentee was calling. I've told you about the mentorship program I'm in. I'm finished now, I mean not finished, you know, but the session is over. The entire project is forcing me into total recall. More anon. I'm going back into the sunshine.