totally bangin'

So back in the day when my mother made my fashion choices, my hair was cut to include bangs. (Actually, to her credit, she was very good at allowing us to make those decisions as soon as we were capable. Sometimes we wish she would've stopped us from wearing those really chic biker shorts on the first day of school, but whatever.) Luckily, I fit right in with the rest of the children of the 80s with crimped/and or permed hair and a nice swath of bangs.

Cute, right?

And then as the nineties merged with the banging (ha) eighties, we started fluffing the bangs.

Dang, I was good at that fluff.

And so my life went well into high school, awkward years of hairstyles that always missed the mark. Probably because I STILL HAD THOSE STUPID BANGS.

Then, one day during my senior year, I had a moment of deep self-realization. To make a long story short: I grew out my bangs, cut the rest of my hair to allow said fringe to blend better, started running, and changed my diet. I came out of this self-realization not only with a deep love of running but also thirty pounds lighter and a forehead free of adornment.

I then spent many good years without bangs, most of them in an effort to grow out those locks I had so carelessly chopped.

Then. Oh let's talk about then.

So by this time I'm married, still without bangs. And I'm obsessed, obsessed, with Reese Witherspoon's hair. Can I have her hair please? I ignored the voice in my head reminding me I wasn't blond and that perhaps my bone structure was a little different (a little?). But still. So I ask my hair artist to chop me some Reese bangs, por favor. And she did. And I loved them. I wanted to have them forever.

And then I got pregnant. Look, when I'm pregnant, I don't make sense. If any of you recall, I wanted to eat snow. I also suddenly and quite dramatically despised my bangs. And so I traveled back in time to my senior year of high school and started growing the suckers out again. (Except this time I gained thirty [plus ten] pounds instead of losing them.) I also kept the long locks (to thusly hide my pancaking pregnant face).

Thanks to pre-natal vits, by the time Belle arrived, bangs-be-gone. Mission accomplished. Lesson learned.

Or not.

She was about a week old, and I was like I WANT BANGS. I marched into the bathroom, combed forward a swath of my long (it was to my butt folks) hair, and chopped me up some bangs. And I loved them. For like four seconds. And then I wanted to scream. Because I remembered why my pregnant self despised the fur on my forehead: bangs are only cute when they are carefully and constantly manicured. They have to have that freshly mown look to be attractive. Seriously. So I'd love them for two days, and then, oh - poof - shaggy bangs. And then snip, snip, snip. Repeat. Aaaaaahhhhhhh.

And so...I am currently growing my bangs out. For the last time. I swear. I made my hair artist swear on her pretty pink blow dryer that the next time I say something like, "So...I think I want bangs..." she would remind me that, actually I'm not a bang person, that actually even though I really wish I were Reese Witherspoon, I'm not, that actually growing out my bangs TAKES TEN YEARS, and we don't want that again do we?

And that is why Annabelle will not have bangs, at least while she's on my watch. And then when she is able to make mistakes all by herself, she too can take a hack saw to her hair. And then when she does I'll be like, "Ha. I told you so. Have fun growing those out for the rest of your life."

By the way, I didn't make her swear on her blow dryer. But it is pink.