If I had a dime for every time I cut my hair and no one noticed, I’d have a lot of dimes, which I would probably trade in for quarters to give to my mom for parking meters.
Full disclosure though, my perman-friend did hide my scissors last week in an effort to quit my relentless chopping. Not very well though–after a mere fifty seconds of looking, I found them in a drawer (directly next to their usual home). There was a Post-It attached that read in capital, somewhat illegible letters STOP CUTTING YOUR HAIR. (Without digressing too much, based on my 27-year-old-husband’s rather embryonic handwriting, I fear for the penmanship of future generations.) At first, I found the gesture and note endearing. He noticed! He really noticed! But in the subsequent fifty seconds, I also realized the only reason he could notice was due to the extensive snippets of thick locks sprinkled around our clogged toilet, which was also the fault of my dislodged hair. No cigar, more dimes. It’s fine, really.
But there’s a reason I’m going there and it’s not another nod to narcissism, oh no. This is far more presidential, and in the event you so much as opened a web browser yesterday, you should likely know that Michelle Obama got bangs, yo. You know what else? She looks, well, banging.
After evaluating the only photo that has surfaced, I got to thinking about bravery. Bravery? Bravery! You see, hair is…difficult for us women. We choose to let our hair define us and as such, have all at some point wondered how getting bangs would make us feel . Some of us have tried (I was a senior in high school and my rabbi asked me why I would do that to myself, which was discouraging but “I am not devalued,”) and some of us have inertly continued to ponder the results.
Though I got bangs out of my system, I have been talking about getting another ear piercing since, like, June. Emily scans my ear almost every time we are together to appraise the proper location for my third piercing and every time I say I’m finally going to do it, I don’t. And why? Because I’m a coward, a weakling, a limp chicken who can’t commit to crossing the damn road.
If M’Obama, though, a woman whose appearance has become so emblematic of the victories and failures of subjection to press, could take a leap of hair-fostered faith, why shouldn’t I just run the shit out of my sneakers over to New York Adorned and pierce my damn ear?
You know what, I’m going to run the shit out of my sneakers over to New York Adorned and pierce my damn ear.
…But what are you dying to do? Get a tattoo? A piercing also? Bangs like M’O? Is it social security number related? Let’s just do it, guys. As Incubus (and separately, the Jewish nation) once said, If Not Now, When? Talk to me.