Yesterday, on my way out to pick up my kids from school, I stared myself straight in the mirror and thought, “No way.” No way was I leaving the house in my bandana and fry clothes. I switched outfits but still felt ugly.
I put on mascara and red lipstick and still felt ugly. I trimmed my hair, but still. Remembering the O Magazine article I read the day before in a doctor’s waiting room, which swore that once a woman reaches a certain age, bangs help, I contemplated going deeper than a trim with my cut. I decided to go for it. So what if I was a little late picking my kids up from school. At least I would feel good when I got there.
Back in college (Temple U/first time around), I sported the look. A girl in my modern dance class told me it looked like a wig. A tall, skinny boy named Branko who read too much George Bataille told me I looked like Lara Flynn Boyle in Twin Peaks. The bangs were a passing trend for me, a mere prelude to the shaved head.
This time around I think I will just grow them out when I tire of them. But then again, I am of a certain age. Doesn’t seem like the cut makes me look 10 years younger, like the O article promised, but 24 isn’t a year I am nostalgic for anyway.
Not even a day into the bang cut, I’m finding it quite practical. I can wear my hear down without having to push my hair out of my face. And my hair remains much more controlled while driving with the windows down. Now back to the kitchen to see how it holds up under heavy heat.