When I was a kid, my father cut my hair. He insisted on bangs. I grew to hate bangs as a result. I never got a choice—until finally in junior high I must have refused the haircut, because my school photos went suddenly from bangs to shoulder-length middle-parted blonde hair. By high school it was waist length.
Which I had until 1982 and our honeymoon: after a sticky sweaty couple of weeks in Hong Kong and Taiwan, I'd had it with long hair. We got to Tokyo, and one of the first things I wanted to do was get it all cut off. David was horrified. The hairdressers were horrified, too—all that beautiful blonde hair, gone? "Are you sure?" they asked. I was sure, and an hour later the floor was covered with enough hair to stuff a pillow with. And I was a new me.
Ever since, the hair has grown long, then been cut short, then grown long. My favorite haircut was very short: so easy! And I thought it was flattering, but what do I know. I try not to look at myself in the mirror.
Most recently it's been short, but I've been letting it grow again. And at a certain point, it's too awful to bear: that moment when all it does is flop in my eyes, too short to tuck behind my ear or to catch in a comb or a barrette. It's just annoying.
And since I don't want to be constantly annoyed by my hair, of all things, on my upcoming trip, I booked a date with my hairdresser, Charlene. I told her, "Give me a trim. And bangs."
Yep, the bangs are back. Not that I actually wear them as bangs. But they're there: shorter than the rest. Here's a picture I took this afternoon. Looks okay, no? (I'll see if I can find some of my school pictures for further illustrations. But probably not before I leave. I really should pack . . .)