There comes a time in many a woman’s life where she contemplates getting bangs. I have found myself, once again, at this particular crossroads. To bang, or not to bang, that is the question…
Long story short: I banged. I banged harder than a Ricky Martin song. This is my life now. I have bangs.
A couple years ago, I used some scissors from my BFF’s craft room and cut my own bangs, which my cousin fixed the next day. I liked my straight across, blunt, Zooey Deschanel bangs, but opted for Sienna Miller curtain bangs this time around. Some more bangin’ inspiration:
On Saturday afternoon, I was sitting in the chair at my salon and right as my stylist was lifting his shears, I panicked and awkwardly seconded guessed all of the choices I’d made in my life that lead me to think that bangs were a good idea. He then gave me a look that said “get your shit together/ hair grows, dummy/there are more important things happening in the world to think and worry about other than your hair”.
Did I regret my decision to get bangs? Oh, immediately. But I have since gone through the five stages of grief that I always go through when I cut my hair:
- denial “oh no I DID NOT just get bangs”
- anger “EFF THESE BANGS! I HATE THEM!”
- bargaining “okay okay I’ll pay you double if you can glue that hair on the floor back onto my head”
- depression “WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY, GOD, WHY?!” *hysterical crying*
- acceptance “I’m going to save a fortune on makeup for my giant forehead”
Now, if you all will excuse me… I have to go get to know this weirdo version of myself I keep seeing in the mirror.