I am a woman of distractions.

I get one thing in my head and have trouble redirecting my attention away from it to consider most anything else — from all the life stuff and the things that I should do, ought to do, need to do.

In this case, the “one thing” in my head is on my head — my hair.

Now one look at the photo that runs with this column every week shows someone — and that would be me — with what you’d call short hair.

It’s been that way a long, long liberating time, and getting shorter and shorter.

After one not-so-long-ago cut/buzz, an acquaintance commented, “Boy, I wish I could get my hair cut that short.”

She made it sound as if such things took a lot of courage or a bout of bravery, but I assured her it required maybe an appointment, for sure some cash or a credit card with the numbers not too melted for processing.

After a long, long time of short, short hair, however, now I’ve threatened to myself that I’m going to grow it out, which I’m not even entirely sure why other than to keep my getting-bigger ears from overexposure.

I’ve made this vow as if I were committed to losing weight or giving up any number of bad habits I have.

“There. I’m growing my hair. I mean it this time!” comes the face-to-face promise in the mirror.

And this is all distracting, not to mention kind of an indicator of how exciting my life is, if someone I haven’t talked with in a while, for instance, asks what I’ve been up to, my best first response is, “Oh, just growing my hair out.”

Bad enough that letting your hair grow takes time, but add to this a most harsh hairy reality — the growing-your-hair-out style is not a flattering look, despite any efforts to the contrary.

The process requires patience because you can’t hurry up and grow hair although there are times I have wondered if I could water my scalp with Miracle-Gro and become the Chia Pet Columnist — growing hair, of course, not greenery.

I haven’t had my hair cut since a week or so before Thanksgiving, which probably may not seem all that long in some hair-cutting circles, but if your hair is super, duper short, that’s a really, really long time to not have your locks come in contact with a pair of hairstylist’s scissors.

It’s like mowing the grass — once you cut it, the least bit of growth, one or two or three blades of grass sprouting skyward, that makes you realize it’s time to gas up the mower again.

With in-between hair, you always look like you need mowed or clipped or cut or trimmed.

And if you color your hair — mine has been red, brown, blonde and highlighted — it’s having less of a presence as the growth begins, and your “real hair” comes more into view. Tinsel. Gray. Natural. Whatever color you care to call it.

Me being me — impressionable and impatient — I ordered a wig, a bit darker color and a little longer style, convinced it could sustain me through some of this growing-out phase. I did so on a lark, but also inspired by a friend who wears wigs and hairpieces a lot and always looks good.

Go for it, she encouraged.

Well, I “went for it” and kept waiting for “hair Christmas” to come in the mail or in a package on my porch. When it finally arrived, I put it on, fiddled with it, didn’t recognize myself in the mirror, and thought, gee, this doesn’t look like the picture or the celebrity who was modeling it. (I guess the face costs extra.)

Better Half took one look at me and wasn’t entirely sure how to weigh in on “the new Janice.”

He wasn’t sure whether to say something nice or say nothing at all. Or turn me upside down and use me as a mop.

The wig was worth the laugh we both had.

I’ll be back next week, my hair a blade or two longer, and probably still distracted.