Bang Bang: The Haircut Saga

When I was around 14, my brother’s girlfriend convinced me to participate in a local beauty pageant. Looking back, I can’t imagine how that ever happened; I considered myself shy, clumsy, and homely inside and out. I was book-smart, but socially awkward and I really wasn’t interested in being the center of attention. I had nothing to offer. I thought beauty pageants were stupid. Was this peer pressure to the nth degree? Why, why did I do this?

As it stands, I can’t really recall the outcome of the pageant itself, but I know I was never in the running. Which was fine for me then, and it’s fine for me now. I remain puzzled about the entire thing, except for one part of it: the haircut. And the haircut is what sticks with me even today.

Once my parents begrudgingly allowed me to participate (I’m certain they, too, felt any effort was futile) my mom took me to a local salon to get my hair cut. For a couple of years I’d had my hair in the style of the day; it was long, straight, and parted in the middle. Like Laurie Partridge. And Marcia Brady. Unfortunately, my forehead took up at least three-quarters of my face and my nose owned the other quarter, so obviously I didn’t resemble either of those sassy sisters. Instead, my forehead resembled a sheet of 8 ½ by 11-inch typewriter paper. Empty, but full of creative possibilities.

The hairdresser suggested he cut bangs to mitigate any camera glare caused by the gleaming expanse (OK, he didn’t say that but I'm sure that’s what he was thinking). I agreed, I mean, what the heck, I didn’t really think anything would fix me, but sure, do your best. And that’s when all hell broke loose.

When my dad came to pick us up, took one look at me and cried out in despair, “Why did you let her do that? They’re too short!” He searched my mom’s face for a clue. My mom gasped in exasperation. I could tell by his response that he thought it was gawd-awful, and that if he as a grown-up boy thought it hideous, then all the boys and the judges would think it as well. Me, I kind of riffed on it a bit. It was something new and it didn’t look horrible. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t metamorphize into a butterfly, but it was guaranteed to camouflage my most prominent facial feature.

However, my dad’s reaction confirmed I’d have no chance of winning. Anything. But that day, I made a pact with myself, and that pact was: BANGS FOREVER, BABY!

And so it began. I kept my bangs. If I were to feel awkward and homely, it would be on my terms. I’d do it. Control it. Wear it proud. And love it. Bang the bangs. As in, I gotcha. Bang. You’re dead.

The idea of hairstyle as an act of rebellion percolated for years. By my late teens, I was experimenting with color and cut. I began taking pictures from Smash Hits and other music magazines to my hairdresser, and I’d ask for sliced and diced styles. Yes, I really did want it that short, I’d say. Yes, I do want that part shaved, I’d insist. Like Allanah Currie. Or Cyndi Lauper. The wilder the better.

For years, when I worked in offices, I kept it to a Number 2 clip. Bright red. Like Annie Lennox. It was unconventional, and it kept the conservative bigwigs wary. Bangs that followed the trail of my hairline, offering up the expanse of my brainy forehead. Just the way I liked it.

Even today, as my hair has softened to its natural pearly silver, my bangs are a statement. Yes, I ask my stylist to cut them like it looked like I tried to do it myself. Like I’d been on acid when I got out the scissors. She understands me. And I always love the result.

I guess I’m thumbing my nose at the concept of traditional beauty, and even at my dad for his off-the-cuff comment all those years ago. I know my dad loved me and he told me I was beautiful. But not too long ago, I mentioned that I was finally getting my hair cut…after several long months of COVID lockdown. Can you guess what he said? It’s almost like I wrote it for him. “You’re not going to get it all cut off, are you?” he asked, a worried expression furrowing his brow.

Well, Dad, yeah. I am. Because you raised me to be me and I'm a bit of a rebel…so thanks, in a way. You’ve made my personal style a lot more fun.

Traditional beauty, I’m not. I prefer being something a little more intriguing. If I were that 14-year-old today, I’d rock every Manic Panic color imaginable and I’d stomp on the naysayers with my combat boots. At least I think I would. Nah, I probably just walk away. It’s difficult to be fearless at any age, let alone on the cusp of puberty. But if there’s one thing I would share with my 14-year-old self, it’s this: Life sucks. But that’s ok, sometimes knowing it sucks gives you a keen power of observation. Watch what’s going on around you but separate yourself from it. Dare to be different--dare to be yourself. You’ll find your way eventually, and constantly changing to benefit other people will just leave you wondering who you really are.

Oh, and your hair? Do whatever you want. Who cares what anyone says? Funny how the same people who used to make fun of me now tell me they want to be as cool as me. Go figure. Bang bang. Meanwhile, you know you’re gonna rock those unicorn rainbow-hued tresses. Or whatever it is that makes your heart go bang.