I’ve discovered that less isn’t more in regards to my hair. Recently, I committed one of the beauticians’ seven deadly sins, something about “thou shalt not cut thine own bangs.” It was New Year’s Eve. I couldn’t get an appointment to the salon in time. There were scissors handy. The rest is history (and in the wastebasket).
Next thing I know, I have full view of my eyebrows and realize that they are starting to go grey. Nobody told me this would happen. Sure, I expected the hair on my head (and other body fur for that matter) to show my age. But I never counted on the bushy valances over my eyes to turn on me. Makes me wonder what additional treats the elderly have been keeping from me.
Since I’m extremely nearsighted, until now I have been blissfully unaware of the natural disaster occurring in the wizard brows I inherited from my father. But there they are — those wild hairs sticking straight out and waving for everyone to see. How can that be good? How can people look me in the eyes when there’s a party going on in the next balcony up?
My bangs were supposed to hide all of that, but the modest fringe covering my brow debauchery has retreated to the penthouse. And while I’m at it, what’s with my forehead? Am I really supposed to have acne when I’m in my 50’s? As a middle-aged bonus, those blemishes are co-mingling with my engaging worry lines and premature wrinkles, for cripes sake, hiding out in the valleys like train robbers while my brow hairs reach towards them in a massive uprising.
Alas, my bangs have left me defenseless. I try to see the butcher job of my trim as alternative or edgy. I imagine myself channeling my inner Cyndi Lauper or Bjork, but only come up with childhood images of Moe from the Three Stooges. I have to admit that I’ve gone too far this time, and will be committed to walking around in public for the near future with a perpetually surprised look on my face.
I’m hoping for a reunion of sorts. Eyebrows, meet your first cousin, Bangs.