Act 2: "Dye your hair blonde and see if they really do have more fun."

To my shame, I accomplished no new feat in February. I felt as though I'd broken a promise to myself, which, of course, I had. But February's a short month, I reason, and I'll make up for it in March.

Indeed, it appears I may.

#22 in "What Every Woman Should Do Once" - the above - happens Saturday night. It's undergone a bit of a metamorphisis from the original suggestion, but I think this version may be even better. There will be no hair dying, which may disappoint some, but I also will not be doing this solo. What's better than one brunette going blonde than three?

Two of my friends, the raven-haired April and auburn-tressed Joani, have agreed to join me in temporary blondeness. We've opted for wigs, instead of color, and likely will go full-bore and wear somewhat sleazy attire to complete the look.

Before my blonde friends (and sister) pepper me with angry comments, this is not because we believe all blondes are sleazy.

Rather, the consensus is that if you're going to take a walk on the other side of the fence, don't just straddle it. Pole vault on over there and experience it to the max.

Besides which, it appears we have a growing audience, a fan base of sorts that expects a good show. My deskmate Tom, neighbor Tom, neighbor Tom's cadre of mostly Italian friends who are known far and wide as the Colorado Springs Mafia, current co-workers, former co-workers and most of my high school class are coming by bus, plane and train to witness this event.

The three of us are practicing a dance routine, a Rockettes-variety show during which we hope our cheesy wigs will stay firmly put. Joani is riding in on an elephant and April and I are negotiating to borrow the American Furniture Warehouse tigers. We will carry the tigers' leashes in one hand, whips in the other.

OK, so the last two, three or four lines may not be true. But it does seem word has gotten out and the pressure is on.

None of us believe we will be attractive blondes. Joani's skin is olive toned, and April and I are milky-complected Wisconsin girls. Nice-looking women in our own skin who still turn a few heads.

The question is, would we turn more as blondes? Have we, all these 40-plus years, been missing out on a plethora of male attention? Would we really have had more fun?

My son pointed this evening to a crayon drawing he'd done of me several years ago. It was a Mother's Day gift that hangs on the refrigerator to this day, and as he noted, likely needs to step out of the spotlight. "Your hair doesn't even look like that anymore," he said. It's longer and not so big, and that, he says, is better.

In his mind, it seems, hair is key in creating the image one projects to the world. "Really Mom," he said, "hair is what it's about."

He's a small male, but a male nontheless. And with two girlfriends in his corner, perhaps his comment merits serious consideration.

In six days, we'll put this legendary theory to the test and discover for ourselves: Do blondes really get more giggles out of life? Or is it just as we brunettes have long thought -- the only thing they actually get more of are really bad jokes?