Late Friday afternoon, I knew I was going out later, and I felt really poopy about my appearance. I really needed a haircut. I didn’t have time to get one. I didn’t feel like going out and feeling poopy.

To hell with it, I said. I grabbed a coworker, shoved my purple scissors in her hand, and asked her to cut my hair. She was surprised, but she acquiesced, surprising me. So off we went to the ladies room. It was late in the day, and her 15-year-old daughter was visiting. She followed and watched in horror, repeating over and over “you’re so brave, omigod, you’re so brave.”

I was vindicated by the results, however, which weren’t bad. I went out feeling renewed. It wasn’t so much the new hairdo, as the happy feeling of having done something daring.

Immaturity can be so liberating, especially on the eve of another birthday.