On a recent morning, after a quick shower, I wrapped my hair in towel, put on pink lipstick and dotted on some pale green eyeshadow.

But when I removed the towel, there was no hair there! I had cut my long tresses only days earlier and had momentarily forgotten.

I suddenly felt like a drag queen from “La Cage Aux Follies,” or Dustin Hoffman in “Tootsie,” removing a long-haired wig to reveal a short man’s cut.

The move to go from Repunzel to Sinead O’Connor with a snip of the scissors wasn’t planned, though I had pondered the thought for some time after seeing Jean Seberg’s short cut in “Breathless.”

I like to wear pony tails and braids, but the long blonde locks of mine had become unmanageable and too much effort. I was sick of the washing and combing.

I had short hair before, so there was some faith that a drastic cut wouldn’t be a disaster.

Still, it had been growing long since the early ’90s. I was used to it. Could I really get rid of my long hair?

What finally led me to the chair was a colleague, who changed her long, dark curly hair to a shorter – and more glamorous – look. A day after admiring the result, I stopped by the Donna McNally Salon, a place I’ve never been, on the way to the gym.

They said they could give me a midday appointment.

I thought about it while I skipped rope at the gym. At noon, I returned to see if the appointment was still available. I called my friend Loretta to consult. She said, yes, do it, but try shoulder or chin length. Don’t do too much too soon, she advised.

But, being a girl of extremes, I had a feeling I was going all the way.

I considered the recent haircuts of several women I knew. All had gone from long to short, and all looked terrific.

Marco, my stylist, was great, not at all pushy one way or the other. He suggested different lengths. I almost chickened out: “How about some layers with it short in front and long in the back,” I asked.

“That will look too much like a mullet,” he said.

Ugh, I said, thinking of baseball pitcher Randy Johnson’s bad hair. Forget it.

Then I said it. “Make it short, pixie short.”

“Kind of Winona-ish?” Marco asked.

“Ummm, yeah, I guess,” I said.

He cut off one long skinny braid for my keepsake box. There was no turning back.

Almost two hours later, I hit the subway with my new short ‘do. Liberated from tangles, combs, barrettes and hair bands, I instantly became a hair snob.

I looked at the other passengers on the train with long hair and thought they’re trapped and they don’t even know it.

And with summer here, I won’t have to pick up a comb between dips in the pool, swims in the ocean or runs in the park.

But would others like my new look?

One person wondered if I resembled that fitness freak Susan Powter. I cringed.

Everyone weighed in. Frank, the barber from across the street, gives me a thumbs up. No one at the gym noticed.

In “Breathless,” Jean Seberg’s dodgy boyfriend tells her she looks like a Martian. She doesn’t, of course, and no one has told me I look like one.

But most people say I was brave, partially because they’d like to do it themselves.

Brave? Not really. Hair grows back.

If you let it.