Yesterday, I turned 22 and a 1/2

This morning I cut my bangs.


My hair grows about a quarter of an inch a week so it really doesn’t matter that I mangled them this morning. Next week at this time, they’ll be normal-shaggy again and no one will know about this morning.

Of course, then I’ll be annoyed all over again because they won’t cooperate with me and the circle brush and the hairdryer. They won’t fluff properly and so I’ll be forced to clip them back–as I’ve been doing regularly for the last month and a half, when I first began cutting my own bangs. Badly.

I’ll think about going to the salon. I’ll fantasize about how great they’ll look after they’ve been trimmed by an actual stylist in an actual salon–instead of haphazardly by me over my parents’ bathroom sink.

But I won’t go.

The stylist will screw up my bangs for sure and never mind that in a week, the screw up won’t even be noticeable. The point is I will have paid for those screwed up bangs. I will have paid precious money–money I don’t regularly make–on screwed up hair, and I would much rather just do it for free.

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