Bangs are very in, I’m repeatedly told as I throw a mild fit in front of friends and strangers. Michelle Obama, Zooey Deschanel and others have brought them back into fashion. But since I’ll never be accused of fashion trendsetting, I don’t care. I didn’t want them.
I just wanted a trim. That’s what I told the lady, assuming that meant she would take basically the same length off every hair on my head, leaving me with more or less the same haircut I’d received the last time I visited.
Sure, I’m not very up on cosmetology jargon. And I can see where it might be hard to figure out what a style is supposed to look like once it’s lapsed as horribly as mine had. Still, who thought “I need a trim” could be interpreted as “Please give me a dramatically different hair cut. One that will be terribly difficult to grow out. And if you could, please make me look exactly like I did in 1987.”
Who would want that? No one – no one – looked good in 1987, least of all me. I should just put on a Warrant tee shirt and some acid washed jeans and pretend I’m the ghost of Tiffin, Ohio past.
So I have bangs. Again. Big, thick bangs.
Like when I was 1.
And in preschool (the glasses only enhance my beauty)…
High school (not everyone carries their sunglasses to commencement, but given my pallor, I obviously was unused to bright light)…
And on into my adult life. (A super cute baby distracts a young mother from her awful hair.)
Indeed, of my many years on this planet, I believe I have lived bang-free for maybe a total of a decade. It’ s not like it takes months and months of relentless hideousness to grow thick bangs out to match the rest of your stupidly long hair or anything. No one over 9 years old should be wearing barrettes, is what I’m saying.
And now, through no honest fault of my own, they are back.
Before long I’ll be ordering in tomato soup every time it rains!
Curse you, Zooey Deschanel!