There's nothing that makes a woman feel as insecure as a visit to her salon. Sure we moan when we step off the scale, but the salon is worse. Dartboard knows first-hand.

The salon is the world of Vogue in 3-D. Not only does the magazine itself grace the waiting area coffee table, but the employees look like they just left a photo shoot. It is not just a place where we have our hair cut. It is a social club where we visit friends who happen to be masters with scissors.

Yesterday, we made an attempt to enter the restricted world of glamour. Dartboard journeyed into Boston to visit with our stylist for our periodic haircut. Dartboard was rather excited. It's a win-win situation--we always leave looking better than when we came in. We don't always leave feeling better though. The initial attempt to sell us a $40 anti-frizz treatment we brushed off as an attempt to sell us unnecessary services. The allusion to our youthfulness didn't ruffle our feathers. We took the remark about our stodginess in terms of hair style in stride. But--when our stylist told us that we were visibly aging--we almost died. "You can call it whatever you want," he assured us, "but you're turning white."

Who wants to be old at 19? Dartboard felt more vivacious and Vogue-like before our cut.