So, let’s be clear. There is nothing inherently wrong with bangs. Lots of us have had bangs before. Bangs are “in” right now; a lot of celebrities have them, which is how we know they are “in.” When ordinary people have bangs, that’s just a bad haircut. Plonk the same bad haircut on a celebrity, and that’s still a bad haircut on a celebrity. Except now it’s cool. Now, it’s “in.” That’s what fashion-and style do. They morph. They repeat. In goes out; out goes in. And so on. Celebrities prove it, time and again.
To be fair, I’ve had bangs, too. Plenty of times. The third grade, straight-across look (we’ve all had that, sadly). The junior high bangs-perm combo (now there’s a treat for you, eh?). The 1980s Pat Benatar look, and so on. And now, bangs are back. Again. You know you are old when the Pat Benatar rocking look from your OWN high school years becomes so vintage that, well, bangs are back. Fuck.
Earlier this month, I skipped my 35th year high school reunion. It wasn’t because I got bangs, though. It’s because I hear there’s still a virus or something flitting around, and I don’t want to get it. I have an auto immune disease, and, to put it simply, I don’t want to die yet. If a 35th year reunion doesn’t make a girl feel old, I don’t know what does! Oh, yeah, I do. Your college roommate’s kid graduating from COLLEGE, for Pete’s sake. Your middle niece starting her second year of college. Your third niece graduating from 6th grade, now starting the amazing, torturous phase of her life called 7th grade. Poor kid. She’ll probably be fine; she’s a charming, beautiful, smart, and sweet angel-kid with a spice of just-on-the-edge bad girl in her. (She doesn’t have bangs, though). She’s the kind of girl I would have loved to be friends with when I was in 7th grade, but she would definitely have been way too cool for me. Oh, well. 7th grade is a long, long time ago, and if I were in 7th grade now myself, it means I definitely, definitely have severe learning disabilities. We’re talking severe.
Instead of severe learning disabilities, in this moment, we’re talking about just one “disability.” Bangs. The problem with bangs for me is, in fact, not the bangs themselves. It’s the fact that I am, and always have been, absolutely clueless about how to style my hair. For years, I wore my hair in a predictable, simple bob, just because it didn’t look too terrible if I did nothing to it. Well, not quite nothing. I washed it. I brushed it. Boom. Done.
Once, when I was briefly more adventurous, I had an extremely choppy hair cut that looked better the messier it was. All I had to do was put a little gooey hair product in my hair, mess it around, and voilà: fabulous hair. I loved it. Not only was it the best haircut I’ve ever had, it was best hair cut experience I’ve ever had, too. I lived in London at the time (who doesn’t love to say that?) and I went to a training school for “Toni&Guy” stylists. Don’t be misled by the “training school” description, either. This was a training school for certified and licensed stylists. They were already professionals; they just wanted to level up their skills at what was one of the more notable salons/academies in London. Cool. The guy who cut my hair explained that in his salon, he would normally get 100-120 pounds just for a haircut, about 100-120 in dollars. That doesn’t sound that expensive, but that was 20+ years ago, and that was the “student rate.” (Because he was a student; I wasn’t). It was an amazing haircut. I went from having really long, wedding-year hair to bold, choppy-chic badass hair. (Choppy CHIC, not choppy chick). It was excellent. I need to go to Toni&Guy again, which would give me a good excuse to go back to London, except sadly, I just found out there are Toni&Guy salons in the States, too, so there goes my excuse to take an International trip. Honestly, I don’t want to travel right now, anyway.
Shall we get back to the bangs issue, please? First: Now I have them. Second: I waver between hating them and liking them. My husband is getting used to them, too. In a cruel-ish, but also funny joke, he told me my hair looks like Paul McCartney. Not how he looked as a Beatle, but how he looks now. Sadly, I have to agree with him. Third: I’ve discovered that it sort of doesn’t matter. As it turns out, my Mom is still dead. I don’t think she would have liked them, either. You might wonder, what does my 52-year old woman’s hair have to do with you? Why should YOU care? Well, you might not. On the other hand, you can trust me. Take it from a stranger: never get your haircut when you are grieving the death of your Mother. It might make you get bangs.
