In the time I have considered this metamorphosis I could have read all 50 Shades of Grey books, colour coded my sons' Lego collection (again) or deleted every Crapsville request on Facebook. Stop procrastinating.
A change can be re-invigorating. Think Sandy in Grease, Posh Spice circa 1997, Madge in the Open your Heart video. Try not to think about Charliez Theron in Monster, Lady Gaga's male alter ego, or any Hilary Swank movie.
To cut a long story short
I'm contemplating the move because I feel like Worzel Gummidge in this windswept weather. I nearly collided with a lampost because my view was so obscured.
My wiry grey roots (more like branches and trunk) can no longer be tweezered and are harder to conceal.
But mostly because I feel invisible in a sea of mothers bob-bing across the playground. I want to feel revitalised, young and funky. Mutton. Lamb?
So, as the last year of my 30s approaches, am I trying to cling on to my youth by pretending to be like Frankie from the Saturdays when I'm more like Frankie Howerd?
Or am I admitting the inevitability of middle age; that we all get Mom style feather cuts in the end, like Lulu?
My hair is high mainteance. It is fine, and flyaway. It curls at the mere mention of moisture and you've not witnessed such frizz since aT'Pau tour. It's over dyed and straightened to within an inch of its lackustre life. It goes greasy faster than you can say: "Dry shampoo."
I try to tame the beast by scraping it back into a ponytail. But what's next? Flat shoes and fleece or - even worse - a scrunchie?
You've not got the Look
The last time I had a crop was in the 80s. Imagine a chubby Lisa Stansfield, minus the beret. I modelled a short back and sides, complete with Spok sideburns. If that wasn't enough I asked the hairdresser to bleach my fringe to look like either Salt or Peppa.
Nobody fancied me (well maybe Tracy Chapman fans did) and I felt very unfeminine and unattractive. I'm sure Sheena Easton or the Swedish woman from Roxette never felt like that. When I later grew my hair I gained boyfriends and confidence and this shaped me. The thought of returning to the ugly duckling terrifies me.
1987: Stonewashed Shakin' Stevens Look
But am I defined by my hair? If I do go for the snip (more references to gender confusion) will I lose my identity?
The Short Straw
Long, shiny hair is such a reflection of youth and fertility. My husband likes flowing locks like Selma Hayek or Jessica Alba with their luscious manes like princesses in fairytales. Whereas my Mothers Grimm tresses would make a nice thatch for three little pigs.
Most mornings I model the electric shock look and it's not because I've been dribbling on the electric blanket again. It's ok for men, they just wash and go.
But the idea of a new, low mainteance me is appealing. My GHDs can get well earnt break (I've told my hubby the electric bills will halve). I can do a bit of minor grooming and brave the school run without a balaclava.
The Cons (Bascially involving looking butch or like a middle aged frump)
What if I enter the salon asking for Carey Mulligan and end up looking like Sarah Millican?
I could look too 80s and resemble a cross between Yazz and Tyne Daly?
What if they give me a GI Jane, shave the back of my head and ask me what grade I want (Er, I do have Grade 3 piano)? Will I see clippers?
I could get mistaken for a man from behind. It happened to my mother when somebody shouted: "Oi, mate, do you know the way to B&Q?"
It grows back. Probably completely grey and not as fast as my old Playdough Barber Shop. Maybe in time for the next Olympics.
Easy maintenance. I can share my husband's Brylcreem and colour my hair with Just for Men. No more shares in Frizz Ease.
I will look sophisticated and mature (not old) like a BBC News reader (not Moira Stewart).
It's all about the layering. At just five foot two, I can gain much neded height.
It could knock years off me. How many I'm not sure. Recently, during a stampede at bargain corner, a woman said: "Make way for the little boy," when torrential rain forced me to wear one of my sons' cagoules. However, short hair could leave me looking like Kathy Burke in Kevin and Perry Go Large.
A cute pixie cut could accentuate my small features. So, with my vertical challenges I can audition for The Hobbit or Peter Pan.
No more helmet hair when cycling.
I have selected the salon carefully. I can't chance a Groupon and a junior stylist from Curl up and Dye. It has to be a reputable (pricey) salon with copies of Tatler, not 1999's Christmas issue of TV Quick.
But I don't want it to be so modern that Hal welcomes me to my pod like seat and a stylist dressed like a mime artist gasps in horror because no, I don't use any heat protecting, shock absorbing, ceramide R, Theramide 4, baboon bum oil product.
Obviously I will say I love it even though I will later be sobbing into my crocodile clip and ransacking the loft for my Morticia Adams wig.
I will stick to my usual highlights. My pillar box red dream is one mid life crisis too far right now. Plus, I might get mistaken for Bea Smith from Prisoner Cell Block H.
Fantasy Haircut League
In my quest, I visited a website and played around with software to super-impose short styles on my face, only to look like a Duplo man's hair was hovering over my head.
Then I tried on wigs, but felt like Hayley Cropper.
So I drew on a photo with a felt tip and looked like Blackadder. I cut the hair off a photo shorter and shorter, until I resembled Bod.
Continuing the psycho killer theme, my husband found me cutting out images of female celebs with short hair. I found Danni MInogue, Natalie Imbruglia, Mia Farrow.
But then I found Rhona Cameron, Kerry Katona and Winona Ryder during her shoplifting era.
At best, I hope to step out of the salon like an iconic 60s siren such as Twiggy, or a contemporary beauty like Michelle Williams.
At worst, I will be like Britney, the Cheetos years, or, as it's the Olympics, Fatima Whitbread.
So, despite my reservations, I think it's time to make the call and say goodbye to Sandra Dee.