Bangin'

Notice anything different about me?

Bangs! I've got bangs!

Inspired by my friend, Kristen J., who looked so darn cute in her trendy bangs when we had girls' night out in January, on a whim one night I decided to take action.

I waltzed into the bathroom while David read Noah a bedtime story, dug out a pair of crummy old scissors, and whacked off my hair. And I'm not talking about a little trim. I literally combed my hair forward from the middle of my head, and started snipping.

I didn't even know if my hair would allow it—this forward, horizontal split where the part usually demands a sharp, off-centered front-to-back line. Lo and behold, it succombed.


The results are rough, but passable. I have yet to go to the salon to figure out what to do with the rest of my hair, which right now is an unfortunate, growing-out slingback bob. Loved the bob, hate the growing out part (don't we all?).

It has taken me about a month to adjust to the disappearance of my forehead, which I happen to dig. It's the problem that at times I feel like I'm sporting a 7-year-old Matilda look that gets me.


All in all, it's a good thing...Change is good...It'll last...at least it's something different, for now.

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An update: I wrote this blog post early Sunday, scheduled it to be posted on Monday, then spent the afternoon getting not one, but TWO haircuts. I have never in my life walked out of a salon thinking, "Holy cr*p, I hate it!" But today I said that... out loud... to the part-bob, part-mangled-1996-Jennifer-Aniston-cut, part-mushroom-head look-alike in my rear-view mirror.

I debated going home and picking up a pair of scissors myself, but then thought I had better leave the repair work to someone with a cosmetology degree. I sought out the nearest salon with the shortest line, and parked my butt in a chair, where I proceeded to fidget for the next 20 minutes as my horrifying reflection watched me in a cutting station across from me.

While I waited, I attempted to smooth, to flip, to tousle, to scrunch—all to no avail. It was no use: I had a bad 'do.

When it was my turn, I laid down my burdens at the hair-covered feet of the sole stylist and admitted that I had, in fact, just come from a salon, and that I hated—yes, hated—my cut. Nothing like a little pressure to get the scissors flying!

The stylist grunted a few times, sighed here and there, as she trimmed and snipped and chopped large sections of my hair. I watched them fall to the floor and could tell immediately that this cut, though not what I was originally reaching for, was infinitely better than the scary mop I confronted in my car a half hour earlier.

In the end, I had to come home and reacquaint my strands with my favorite hair straightener before I could face the light of day. It's a bit, um, round (keep those Dorothy Hamill comments to yourself, please), but it's about as trendy as it's ever going to be... and as short too!


I suppose I ought to just learn to embrace it. With an average growth rate of a half inch per month, this hair's staying with me for a while.