Lisa Kogan tells all: after a very bad hair day, our newest columnist figures out what's really messing with her head.

AT FIRST, YOU THINK EVERY DEtail will remain forever lodged in your memory. It was a Saturday. I had toast and a tangerine for breakfast. My sweater was cobalt blue. But with time and distance and a perceptive shrink, you begin the arduous process of moving on. You think you'll never forget, but you do--you must.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

And still, the dreams come. In them, a kindly old healer--part Jonas Salk, part Jimmy Stewart--hears of my suffering. Tears well in my eyes as he clutches me to his bosom.

"It's been a nightmare for you, hasn't it?" he whispers.

Through tortured sobs, I manage, "Yes. Oh God, yes."

He takes my face in his weathered hands as a mixture of pain and fury clouds his features, and he hurls his wrath to the heavens. "That ... butcher!"

This, my friends, is the story of a very, very, very bad haircut.

It all began one mild morning in February when I realized that I was about three and a half weeks past my "delightfully shaggy" look. It was only a matter …