Although it's heartbreaking to lose a boyfriend or a husband, there are few things as harrowing as losing your hairdresser. I discovered how much mine meant to me when I almost lost her.

My hairdresser, Diane (not her real name), is a nomad who's changed salons half a dozen times in the past few years. No matter where she's gone, to the far nether areas of Columbia County or the streets of downtown Augusta, I've followed. Over the years, I'd endured salons with outdated magazines and jarring techno music, all out of my devotion to her.

Awhile back, Diane bought her own salon, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally, my vagabond hairdresser had found a permanent place to park her curling iron. No longer would I have to get accustomed to unflattering mirrors, strange smocks or unfamiliar chairs.

My contentment was short-lived. Maybe ownership didn't suit her, or maybe it was just the restless call of the open road, but three days after my last appointment with her, Diane sent me a postcard saying she'd moved to yet another salon.

"That's it," I said, tossing her postcard aside.

"I'm done being a groupie. I'll find myself another hairdresser - a homebody type who's been in the same salon since the Dorothy Hamill craze."

Of course, I didn't mean it. Rash statements are easily made when one's roots are still blond and one's hair isn't yet shaggy.

Flash forward to three weeks. I look like Cousin Itt with a brown yarmulke on my head, and I'm turning the house upside-down looking for Diane's postcard.

When it can't be found, I frantically try to remember the name of her new salon. It had the word "clip" in it. Or was it "snip"?

I page through the phone book. Nothing looks familiar.

As I start calling salons, my entire hair history with Diane flashes before my eyes.

How she benevolently took me on after my unfortunate run-in with Nice 'n Easy Natural Champagne Blonde.

We survived the bangs crisis of 2001, and I can still her sage advice in my ears: "Remember, Karin, Chardonnay and scissors don't mix."

Our relationship wasn't just about hair. She saw me through a half-dozen boyfriends, an engagement and a wedding. I saw her through a marriage, a baby, a divorce and a second marriage.

I picture myself starting all over again in an unfamiliar hairdresser's chair - a stranger who will part my hair on the wrong side and use too much styling gel.

The image freaks me out so much that, finally, I remember the name of Diane's new salon.

Sometimes it takes a near loss to fully appreciate someone, and in that moment, I make a vow. No matter where Diane wants to go - Hephzibah, Harlem or even Thomson - I will be nipping at her heels.

Augusta resident Karin Gillespie is the author of bet Your Bottom Dollar. Reach her at www.karingillespie.com.