Yesterday, I had an appointment to sit in my Hair Wizard’s chair. I went in, sat down, and said these exact words: “I am tempted to cut bangs. Either talk me fully into them, or talk me fully out of them, because I am perched on the fence post at this very moment, and I don’t know which side to jump into.”
When I have the bangs, I wish that I didn’t.
And when I don’t have the bangs, I wish that I did.
I wish that bangs were more like a sweater that you could take on and off, as the temperature changed, instead of being the years-long commitment that they are.
The Hair Wizard talked me into cutting long bangs, which dangle around my chin. Naturally, when I left her turret in the castle yesterday, she had my entire head all curled and sprayed, and I was ready to cut a rug at the local disco. All I needed was my hot pink scarf as an accessory. This morning, though, I was alone with the chin-length bangs in my bathroom, and the result was that I looked like a fifteen-year-old boy with his hair hanging in his eyes.
“Dude! I had some flip-flop with the bangs decision, but I had some cut, and, Bro, they are off the hook cool! I’m totally taking my board and bustin’ out a session. My kick-flip is totally diamondz now!”
(Don’t even ask me how I know all those skateboarder words. In the words of Larry Daley, “I have seen things that you could not imagine…”)
I am committed, though, at least for a while now, to the long bangs. Forgive me if I look like a punk who keeps swishing his head to the side to get the hair out of his face.
And forgive me if I wrap this post up early tonight. The boy is downstairs, watching some show about trapping live alligators. He keeps shouting out, “Shoot him! Shoot him, already!” Clearly, the Y chromosome knows exactly when to pull the trigger. Upstairs, here beside me, is our little TV, which Hubs has left tuned to Fox News. Sheppard Smith is announcing all kinds of interesting things. Hubs is in the kitchen, in front of the iPod, doing some shuffling. Right now, Cinderella is doing some screeching.
I don’t know if you’re keeping track, but that’s one alligator-hunting show, turned frightfully loud. And one boy shouting kill instructions to the alligator hunters. And Sheppard Smith, telling me what’s happened around the world today. And an old hair band from the late ’80s screaming out, “My gypsy road can’t take me home!”
I’m going to go lock myself in my bedroom closet and rock back and forth for a while, just to escape the noise!
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As a side note, don’t forget to peek at our friends’ blog. Gabe and Jodi are in China, and they are bringing baby Leah home at the end of this week! She’s cute as a bug’s ear.