Men, I’m gonna go ahead and warn you – you may not be able to relate to this.
Or maybe you will; some men do stress over this matter and perhaps a few should.
But it involves hair. Particularly, bangs or no bangs.
I decided a few months ago, I needed a change.
My rear wasn’t seeming to get any smaller (thank you, cheesecake and wine) so I decided I should change the hair style I had been sporting for a number of years.
The side part, with the long bang that was supposed to end at some point on the side of my face to give me the illusion of having cheekbones and a thinner face than what I really have.
Hey, I have one of those weird shaped faces that has been described as square, oval, completely round, and triangle.
At this point, I feel like a Bobble-head who doesn’t know how to describe my head shape other than “watermelon large.”
So I decided I needed a change and bangs would be a nice one.
They could cover my forehead wrinkles, as well as a multitude of over-plucking sins. I maybe should add I have some type of hair obsession disorder that needs its own DSM-5 classification.
Would another cut/color/style look better on me than what I currently have, and would it look good the day after I leave the salon?
Back to my latest obsession-bangs. Bangs were my style of choice as a teen into my mid-twenties, heavy and thick falling to my brow.
I had people tell me I looked like Shannen Doherty from her “Beverly Hills, 90210” days. Not a bad comparison, mind you, until you are asked if you are as horrible as Brenda Walsh.
Somewhere post-college graduation, I decided to grow the bangs out, after a horrible short bob made me realize how round my head actually is.
Then, several years ago, on my first visit to a new stylist, I told her I wanted bangs. She obliged. It never occurred to me that the barely noticeable waviness to my hair would cause my bangs to curl up when dry, making the bangs far shorter than they appeared when wet. I ended up with severely short bangs that made me look like Nancy from “Lil Abner.”
It was maybe the first time I cried over my hair.
It did not help that during a Monday morning meeting, my boss kept interrupting to ask me if I had that done to my hair on purpose, had I paid for it, and how long would it take for my hair to become normal again.
He meant it in semi-jest, but I cried again later.
It was so bad, even Mama didn’t offer her derogatory two cents she usually does about my hair.
So I swore never again would I sport bangs.
Until a few months ago. I decided they were the change I needed.
And they have been the boil on my forehead ever since.
I just knew Mama would hate them, but instead she told me I looked like Abby Scuito – all I needed was pigtails – so she was fine with my new ‘do.
I didn’t even have the righteous self-rebellion of being able to justify my choice by declaring to my mother it was my hair and I could have bangs if I wanted to.
No, for once, she stole my thunder and said my new bangs were, “absolutely adorable.”
Just how every 40-something wants to be described.
My hair obsession has been worsened by the fact I have several anti-bang factors working against me. I have a widow’s peak; I have several cowlicks; my hair has just enough curl that when it’s humid, the under layer will kink and curl through the top layer making me look like I am turning into a she-devil.
They are a commitment I was reminded of when telling my stylist maybe I should just let them grow out.
“It will take almost a year,” I was told.
And there is only so many ways you can wear in-between bangs without sticking some kind of hair clip in there that makes you look like you are 5.
Part of my hair dysmorphia now includes seeing photos of people with styles sans bangs I covet. All one length, center parts, long flowing tresses – my hair could look like that, couldn’t it?
“Oh, the problems you have,” Lamar said as I grimaced in the mirror, pulling on my bangs.
When his hair gets on his nerves, he takes his clippers and buzzes his head down to the scalp, leaving just a fine layer of fuzziness.
I just didn’t feel like I looked like myself.
To prove my point, I ran into one of Cole’s former teachers the other day and she almost didn’t recognize me.
Sure, I had a new color – I was now a deep mahogany with blonde highlights, but the bangs had completely changed my appearance. Maybe the bangs aren’t me.
I told all of this to Lamar, who said nothing. He just frowned and waited until an appropriate time to turn back to the TV.
Men may not understand or have any sympathy about this, but women probably do. The struggle of how to fix our hair, whether to cut, color or perm it. It was a never ending battle.
I wasn’t sure what to do exactly, but I was pretty sure I was going to grow out my bangs, even if it did take a year.
Just in time to cut them again.