Big Bang Theory

I'm standing in front of the bathroom mirror, my giant orange-handled Friskars scissors poised to, yet again, trim the overgrown hedge that were once known as my bangs. I am doing this because a.) I have once again let my hair grow out to shaggy proportions, and because b.) I once again failed to make an appointment at my last appointment and now will once again have to make that familiar call of desperation where I start out with "I know that it's highly unlikely..." and ends with "Oh. Well. Ok...I'll take your 'level 1' stylist {that just graduated from beauty school yesterday} since she's available TOMORROW." And then, just as familiar, is once I'm seated into the salon chair, watching intently for that look of suspicion as they hold up the hair in the bang zone, all to find a jagged replica of an incline plane. As though the stylist is an ordained Hair Priest, I confess my sin of cutting it myself because I was 'desperate' and am a 'busy mom' and 'i KNOW i SHOULD make regular appointments...etc. etc. etc.'

This is a cycle that has been repeated most of my adult life and has yet to be broken. I am sure YOU are much more organized. But not I.

One might wonder why I have a hair style that incorporates bangs, a high-maintenance feature of hair styling.

Please, read on.

(me, far left along with my cousins Brandon, Erin and Amanda. My aunts where apparently big bang fans as well. By the way--thank you, Dorothy Hamill)

I have had bangs as long as I can remember. My forehead has always lived under their shadow.In fact, I probably came out of the womb with a nice straight bushel of them lined up against my teeny forehead. I'll insert a little piece of personal family history here: Due to the fact that until her middle teens, my mother grew up in a Mennonite community in which women neatly parted their hair down the middle, gathered it back in a bun and wore it under a covering, she had a repressed desire to have bangs. Oh how little did she know that 'repression' would catapult her into a lifelong obsession with the fringe of hair over ones forehead and how her passion for them would leave an indelible imprint on her daughter's lives. If she wasn't allowed to have bangs, well, by golly, her daughters WOULD not only be allowed, but greatly encouraged to be the bearer of bangs for the rest of their lives.

(My little sisters and I. Had the littlest one any hair, I'm sure it would have also reflected a conflicted blend of my mother's childhood hair reality and fantasies. It's quite a natural profile pose, don't you think? I believe we were gazing due east, awaiting my father's arrival through the living room door)

Thus, for fear of exposing my forehead to the elements combined with the fact that the 1980's was a breeding ground for big bangs, I always had them. For better or for worse.

Here's the worst:

(Notice my little sister on the right. Cowlicks did not intimidate my mom. No siree dandy! As for me, no chance for any boys to run their fingers through my hair. Not that their were any boys waiting to do so. And had there been, Rave, Level 5 Hairspray would have absolutely prohibited even finger-nail length intrusion.)

*I would like to throw out here (because I MUST), that my mom was the best. Just because she had a bang fetish did not mean our childhood was in any way less fulfilling, loving and full of good things. She just liked bangs, and she let us know it ("You're growing your bangs out, sweetie?... Oh, nothing...I just think a little volume around your forehead is so much more flattering on your face type."). Obviously, I bit the bait hook, line and sinker.

******

The Oscars are on now, and yes, I love to see what everyone is wearing. Glimpsing into another glamorous world while in my PJ's and tucked away in my home sweet home is somehow quite appealing. And as a plus, I can see now that my bangs have been trimmed above my burly eyebrows.