In keeping with the recent tone of this blog, which is one of emotional chaos and instability, I am going to follow up a supremely emo post about the day my family found out I’d decided to divorce my husband with a post about hair! Because, obviously.
On Friday, I went from this (read: looking like deathbed-Beth from Little Women)
(While this is a story about bangs, it could very well also be a PSA about the dangers of fluorescent lighting.)
I think I may hate them. I knew that I would, but I did it anyway because I am so rebellious. They aren’t even really what I wanted, because my attempt to go full Zooey Deschanel was thwarted by the man charged with cutting my “fringe.” We had a long, lost in translation moment when I first sat down, when I told him what I wanted and kept demanding “bangs,” forgetting, of course, that I’m in a country where asking for things like “rides” and “bangs” means something decidedly different. When I finally pulled out my phone to show him all the photo examples I’d collected, he said, and I quote, “With your hair in this weather? No.”
I strong-armed him into what I currently have, and I’m thinking now that my first mistake was thinking bangs were a good idea. My second was trusting a man who didn’t understand half of what I was saying to attempt to cut them.
It’s been two days, and I’m already looking into creative ways to pin and braid them back. So.
At least that’s going well.