Okay, I’ll be honest. I’m a little nervous. I’m worried that the stress from the breakup will add pounds, gray hair, and the start of a muffin top. Nina says I should cut my hair. This is easy for Nina to say: she’s tall, blond and gorgeous—every man’s midlife crisis. It’s tough when your best friend could be a supermodel. But I digress…

Back to the haircut. The problem is: I have long wavy red hair. When long wavy red hair is cut, it turns into short frizzy red hair.

“Why would I do that?” I asked.

“You’ll have more jewelry options!” she said. “People actually will be able to see that you have some on. Besides, all single women cut their hair after a break-up all married women grow their hair after a divorce. It’s a law of nature.”

Think, Maggie, think.

Whenever I have a big problem to solve, I visualize being back home. There is more space to breathe there. I feel free, and ideas come easily. To get myself in the mood, I scoop a huge spoonful of Rocky Road. (Ironic choice of flavor, no?)

I remember hanging out at my Aunt Sophie’s house after school. I used to wait for my mom to pick me up on her way home from work. Aunt Sophie would always talk about what it means to be a “real woman.” And that’s when a light bulb goes on and the Big Rock Theory is born. I’m suddenly thinking rocks, brilliance, mysterious facets of my life yet to discover.

But where to start? Get the haircut? Book an island vacation? Cruise the city for a box of upscale chocolate—and have it for dinner? Okay, definitely not the chocolate, but I should learn to cook. And I should start working out again. Maybe learn a new language? Organize my office? Get a pet—no, maybe a houseplant.

I’m seeing a pattern here. I actually feel like getting out there and creating new experiences for myself. Maybe the working-out part is a little ambitious given my current state of emotional distress.

So, this is my plan. I will learn something new every month, and each thing that I learn has to continue on each month thereafter. If I learn how to cook in November, I have to continue cooking all year long. If I start to learn a new language, I have to practice it all year long.

Working out can be February’s goal, since it’s the shortest month. I’d just try it out to begin with…to see how it fits into my schedule…Okay, okay. I’ll do that all year, too. [Note to self: Research the whole endorphin phenomenon.]

I grab my cell and speed-dial Nina.

“Dahling!” Nina answers in a smooth but slightly intoxicated voice. She is at a party with her man du jour. “You okay? Should I stop by on my way home?”

 “Well,” I said a little hesitantly, “if it can be at a decent hour.”

“I’m on my way. My date’s turning out to be a great guy; just ask him. He loves to talk about his favorite topic and even as we speak, he’s still going on and on about himself. You have just done me a terrific favor.”

I set out a proper “girls” feast on the coffee table: the tub of the aforementioned ice cream, toaster pastries, brie and crackers, and, wait for it—chocolate, pounds and pounds of it. Okay, it’s only two pounds, but it will suffice.

Twenty-two minutes later, Nina glides into the room, a vision in her gold silk party dress, reminding me once again, that although I loved her, I also hated her just a little. I hug her, “Thanks for coming; I’m sorry Mario didn’t work out.”

It is only a little lie.

She waves her hand. “Predictable, from the moment I met him. He was forever seeking a reflective surface to reaffirm his looks. I bet he spends more time in front of the bathroom mirror than I do. He was cute, though. And tall. I wore my highest heels and he still had a good inch on me.”

She pauses, waves her hand again. “Basta!” (in Nina-land, this means “Enough! Change the subject!”)

“So how ARE you?” she says, giving me a quick once over. I am in my comfy clothes—a man’s oversized shirt, sweat pants, and fuzzy yellow slippers. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail and my face has zero makeup.

“Good!” I reply, realizing that I mean it. “No, really, I’m GREAT! I’ve had some time to let the whole thing sink in and I’ve made some decisions.”

I grab a bottle of red wine and two stemmed glasses, and win a brief confrontation with the cork.

“To being Big Rocks,” I say, raising my glass.

Nina raises an eyebrow.

I spend the next hour explaining Aunt Sophie's kitchen-table philosophy and my Big Rock Theory. At some point I realize I am gesturing with the hand holding the wine glass—ignoring a half-eaten chocolate-covered caramel in the other.

“So,” I finish, “I want to learn something new each month but I don’t know where to start!”

“Simple,” Nina says. “Start with the outside, as I’ve been telling you, something that the whole world can see.”

Uh-oh. I feel the Haircut Discussion coming again. I like my long hair. It makes me feel feminine.

Nina disagrees.

“You’ve got to lose the corporate, linear look,” she continues. “You’re fantastically creative—except when it comes to you. It’s time to express yourself with your appearance. You have curves—so show them! For months you’ve been doubling as the Creative Director for one of the top ad agencies in town, but you still look like a stiff shirt. You might as well work on Wall Street. You’re a fun, sexy, playful, brilliant woman—you should celebrate it!”

Had I just been complimented—or dissed?

“You need to commit to color,” Nina continues. “Be less rigid. This is the perfect time to show the world who you are.”

“Okaaaay…”

“I’ll set you up with my personal shopper. She’s styled some of the top people in town, including me, of course. From there, we’ll go to my hair stylist. Nobody knows curly hair like he does.”

I feel like the quintessential deer-in-the-headlights. A complete makeover…really?  Am I ready?

Nina gives me a hug. “Don’t worry, I’ll set up the whole thing. All you’ll have to do is show up! We’ll do it together.”

I slump into the couch. This is becoming real waaaay too fast for me. I open my mouth to try to slow things down a bit, but Nina puts up a hand.

“Shush.” I take a sip of wine and think Oy!

My cell rings. By the ringtone, I know it’s my assistant, Eve.

“I’m at the Children’s Hospital fundraiser,” she gasps. “Mr. Douglas is here.” (Stanley Douglas is our managing partner.)

“He’s been talking with that man we saw in the office all last week. They talked for almost an hour, and then they shook hands. Do you think this is what I think it is?”