If I had a few missing front teeth I’d pass for a first grader. Okay, I’m short, but that’s not why I look like a seven-year-old.
It’s the bangs, as defined – hair chunk(s) commonly used as forehead covering. Except my forehead isn’t so covered.
I should know better.
Artistic license comes with curly hair which I, for the most part, possess. With straight hair, one has to be extremely careful because every scissor stroke shows. With curly hair, you can slice and dice and still show your head in public. And maybe that’s why God gave me a mop, because I don’t look so good in hats.
My bangs aren’t curly just a touch wavy, which is sometimes nice, but not when it comes to cutting them. I have to be very, very careful when I take scissors to those precious few inches of self-image.
When I was a wee lass my mom acted as my beautician. My bangs were always a bit on the short side because she’d get concerned about the left and right side of the bangs being similarly located on my forehead.
At sixteen I ventured into trimming my own bangs. I didn’t realize that hair shrinks when it dries. I ended up with something that resembled the fuzzy, sticky-outy corner brush on some vacuum cleaners.
That wasn’t so cute at sixteen.
Of course, I’m not so thrilled with myself at forty-three either.
My eldest daughter had a stab at my bangs. Once. And I have a picture to immortalize the event. Yeah. Everyone in my family, near and extended, got a big kick out of the grand idea of letting a twelve-year-old cut my hair. In hindsight I would’ve at least waited a day or two after my grandma’s big eightieth birthday celebration.
Yesterday, I’d had enough of seeing the world through dark fringe, and enough of my hubby’s cute comments, “Hey, I wondered where you went.” and, “It has eyes!” from his repertoire of clever quips.
I ducked into the bathroom and chopped. I cut below my eyebrows and didn’t try to even up or get creative or anything deviating from my hard and fast rules for bang shearing.
And this morning I woke up needing a plaid jumper, shiny Mary Janes, and a lollipop to complete my school-girl ensemble.
Hmmm. I guess at forty-three I should be thrilled to look young. Think this could catch on in Hollywood?
I could design a bang cutting ruler that would guarantee instant youth. A face lift is worth what, twenty years max? I could get you thirty-five – easy.
Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.