I didn’t cut bangs.
Let’s just get that out there.
I was back and forth all morning. Bangs? No bangs? Bangs? It was shockingly similar to sitting with a daisy, plucking petals.
Amy and I were supposed to hit the cinema tonight to see J-Lo’s new movie, but she texted this morning to say, “Alert! Sick kid! Movie is probably off!” I texted back to say, “Bummer! Hope she feels better soon! Should I cut bangs at my appointment today?”
Naturally, Amy went into hyper-overdrive, as she helped me thoroughly dissect the debate on bangs, and whether I would love them or not, and then she said, through eighteen different text messages, “My bottom line, Sister, is not to do it. Once cut, they’ll be there for months, if you decide you hate them.”
And then she texted, “But Tiff just cut bangs. She looks fabulous.”
So I texted Tiff. “You cut bangs? Really? I am thinking about cutting bangs TODAY. I want to see yours!”
Tiff texted back. And through another eighteen text messages, I learned that Tiff recently cut bangs at an uber-fancy salon in a major metropolitan area, the likes of which Small Town, USA has never seen. Tiff had a co-worker take her picture with her cell phone, and blam! She sent it to me. Technology is oftentimes so convenient.
Tiff’s bangs were beautiful.
I was ready to throw Amy’s advice under the bus and cut myself bangs at 2:00, because I wanted hair that looked exactly like Tiff’s. Never mind that Tiff’s hair is as thick as a giant redwood tree, while mine is flimsy and baby-fine.
But then Amy’s words kept haunting me: “Once cut, they’ll be there for months, if you decide you hate them.”
Why does life have to be so hard?
After ninety-seven text messages this morning between Amy and Tiff, I was no closer to having a decision.
And not having a decision meant that when I walked into the salon at 2:00 this afternoon, it was a no-go on the bangs. A red light. The hair was colored. The hair was cut. And I remain bangless.
I showed up at the boy’s soccer game at 4:00 this afternoon, and a couple of my friends shouted out, “You didn’t do it!”
It’s because I lack bravery when it comes to scissors and my hair. In college, I was brave. I could have rivaled Mel for his part in Braveheart. I went from having hair to the middle of my back one day, to having hair just above my ears later that afternoon.
Now days, I’m old enough to realize that if I lopped that much hair off, I’d never see it again, because, at my age, the only fresh hair growth a girl gets is on her upper lip. If I hated the bangs, it probably would have taken me until the Rapture to grow them back out.
So yes. Hubs and I and my no-bangs haircut watched the boy play some mean and tough soccer. The game was back-and-forth, back-and-forth, and I was getting dizzy trying to keep track of the score.
Two to one.
And the bummer of it all was simply this: No one brought snacks for afterwards, and I’ve never seen a team of such broken-hearted faces after a game. The boys’ eyes drooped; their chins quivered. They had given the game all they had. They had come out on the bottom of the score card. And no one thought to bring snacks.
What kind of parents are we?
Afterwards, the boy wanted McDonald’s for dinner, but I told him, “Um, aren’t you the boy who consumed his weight in junk food over the weekend? You’re having some vegetables for dinner.”
And that, people, is what we had. Leftover, reheated pork chops, which were fabulous. And asparagus. And broccoli. And salad.
And then Amy texted me and said, “My sick kid fell asleep. The man is going to watch her. We can do the cinema.”
And so we were off, even though Heather had told us, in a very firm voice, “The movie is cheesy. It’s dumb. It’s not worth the price of the ticket.”
Whatever, Heather! It’s J-Lo!
May I give you my official review of The Back-Up Plan?
Are you sitting down for this? Seeing this movie means that there will be two hours of your lifetime that you will never recover. And also, you will be eight dollars poorer, because you bought a ticket and were too stuffed with asparagus to buy a bag of butter with popcorn in it. Thank goodness, people, that it was only an $8 night out.
Amy and I ended up talking through the entire film, and she kept saying, “Kill me! Kill me now! This movie is so dumb! I could’ve written a better script! I hate this movie. Do you think we should walk out?” And all of this while Amy’s husband texted and said, “Black Hawk down! The fever on the girl is 101.2.”
There you have it. Another official film review.
I just need to give a message to my future self.
Dear Future Mama,
If, at some point in the future, Hubs is in the bathroom, using the NasaFlo Neti Pot to rinse his sinuses, exactly like the doctor ordered to help with the Man Cold that was given the name of a sinus infection, ignore him completely when he shouts out the words, “Hey! Do you wanna see something really cool?” Because, chances are, getting up, walking across the house, and seeing the nine-inch dragline hanging out of Hubs’ nose while he laughs hysterically is going to traumatize you for the rest of your life. You do not need to see this.
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
Oh, Hubs. Is it really until death do us part?! Isn’t there a clause in there which reads, “It’s until death do you part, or until he displays a nine-inch dragline hanging out of his left nostril and laughs about it until his side hurts”?
Goodness, but I love that man. I really do, people.