I believe the trauma of my bangs experience goes back to the very early 2000s. This was the era of large curled bangs that required at least one can of shellac daily. I was young, and my bangs had to be all the rage. I had the biggest and most perfectly curled bangs… until 9th grade art class.
Normal morning for a 13-year old. Bangs up, flare jeans on, clumpy mascara, all check. This was the day I would get to learn about pewter molding. I carved out some ridiculous symbol into a plaster mold and was let loose with a BLOW TORCH.
Now I was 13, not the smartest of ages mind you. I was melting the pewter and leaned in to get a closer look at what I was doing. Then the shit hit the fan, or flames hit the bangs would be more accurate. I panicked. I remember beating my bangs into submission and bolting for the bathroom. By the grace of God I was not hurt. However, the first 10 layers of hair and shellac had gone up in flames, literally. I was left with only a sad little wisp of bangs that were unable to be teased to their formal greatness.
This experience has set the stage for my relationship with bangs since. I grow them out, I cut them, and then I usually wish they would go up in flames.
Bangs seem to be like a drug for me. I finally grow them out and quit them, but I keep jonesing to get them back. My hairstylist must think I am nuts. I rant and rave to her on a regular basis about how annoyed I am with my bangs, only to come back a few weeks later asking her to cut them down again.
I could get deep about personal self-image and a drive to achieve an unrealistic beauty standard. I really could. But I am going to leave you with this, it is only hair. *She says as she sprays her bangs with dry shampoo, re-curls, brushes through, and solidifies with shellac.*
Tired Not Dead 