I was a banged child and I hated it. Childhood is only nice and pleasant and tender for a brief time and then it tends to turn oily, pimpled and full of despair. One minute you're a raging, jubilant five year old tearing around the yard and pretending you're God, or something, then you hit 12 and if you're a girl life starts to go horribly wrong. It doesn't always begin with the monthly cycle. At least not for me. There was a point where I became aware of myself as inhabiting a distinct body and instead of this realization carrying wonder and joy (as it should have), it brought only confusion, discontent and fear. Bangs -- and a weird cow-lick that flipped these bangs up and out at an awkward angle -- didn't help.
I very distinctly remember an afternoon at church camp, my dad looking down at me and my face likely a picture of anguish. It was a scene straight from "A Christmas Story" when the boy comes downstairs wearing pink rabbit pajamas his aunt made for him and which his mother has commanded him to try on.
"Do you like having bangs?" my dad asked slowly.
I shook my head.
"Do you want to pull your bangs back and grow them out?"
I nodded emphatically, not daring to look my mom in the eyes. She was the one who cut the bangs after all and I didn't know where her loyalties might fall.
I don't remember any other details of that day or why my dad even noticed my bangs, but I do know that not until I cut them myself several years later did I ever have to have bangs again.
This is all to say that two days ago, I cut some bangs. Mistake. My hair is curlier now and if bangs didn't work when I was a child, why should they work now? I look like Cher from "Moonstruck" but without the cheekbones and the big eyes -- squinty Wilson/Blake eyes forever! Fortunately, I'm mature now and don't care about my looks or compare myself with other, better-looking women. Right? Right.
