Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

Translation: Is it better to get one of the best and most expensive haircuts in the world for free as part of a one-time press promotion, or to turn down the opportunity and remain content (ish) with your own Great Cuts coif?

That was the enormous quandary I faced last week, as the days ticked down to my haircut with stylist to the stars Frederic Fekkai, the $600 man.

On Thursday, at the appointed hour, dressed to kill (well, maim at least) I showed up at C.O. Bigelow, an upscale beauty store in Copley Place that sells Frederic's products, and where Fekkai himself would later be doing complimentary five-minute consultations.

``God's gift to hair'' - in the words of one editor - had not yet arrived, but his director of education, Lisa Ferruggia, had, and we chatted as excitement built. ``Frederic's like a surgeon,'' she told me, as she arranged a tray with instruments for the great healer. Combs, brushes, glossing products.

And then, just as I caught my reflection in the mirror and wished I had gotten my hair professionally blown out pre-visit, He materialized: tan and French (in a good way). Because we were in the back of a store, not a salon, he was concerned about my comfort. ``Is this OK for you?''

We air kissed hello (double), and I allowed that the setting was fine.

``I am going to ask you a few questions,'' he said. He drew me close and stared at my face. ``Turn left,'' he said, taking in my profile (the horror), ``and right.''

He asked me to pull down my robe so he could look at my shoulders (why didn't I buy a new bra????). ``What are you looking for?'' he wanted to know. ``Graphic? Or sexy chic, but casual.'' ``That one,'' I said. ``A modern shag,'' he responded.

He had looked into my soul.

Frederic picked up his scalpel and sliced off a goiter of hair that had been growing over my right ear for years. It felt physically good, as if he'd removed a splinter.

``Thank you,'' I said, as happy as I'd ever been. And yet, a moment later, I was filled with sadness. What if the cut wasn't as transforming as the hype made me hope? I'd have to accept that there was nothing out there to help me.

Some 20 minutes later - we'd hardly had time to go through my pre-prepared small talk - he pulled out a dryer and began his tutorial. ``You start with the roots,'' he said, ``you must start with the roots.'' In my whole life, I'd never paid so much attention.

And then, like that, it was done. We double air kissed again, and we walked into the store - he to meet his public, me to start my new life (which I figured would last for about six weeks).

And yet, I was already feeling a twinge of remorse. ``Your hair looks wonderful,'' one of C.O. Bigelow's employees told me. ``Yeah,'' I said, ``but it's all downhill from here.'' She lowered her voice and passed on a tip. ``Vu'' - a stylist in Fekkai's New York Salon - ``can follow Frederic's line and he's only $100.''

Only $100! That sounds almost reasonable, if you don't count the round-trip tickets, cabs to and from the airport, the hotel and meals, I mean.

But on a more immediate note - I've got problems. The stress of blow-drying my $600 hair has become such that I don't want to go out of the house.

``Don't worry,'' one of my friends told me (over the phone), ``it will grow out soon.''