When you’ve got bangs like a boy, and you’re a girl, the world can be a cruel place.
When I was little my mother liked my hair short. VERY short. Once she even tried to give us uber-tight Toni perms so that the short cut could be curled
and we’d sport little afros.
Thankfully she only got to the littlest sister before changing course.
One fine weekday afternoon, whilst I was stretching on my tippy toes to smell the lilacs in my grandmother’s front yard, the garbage man on duty that day cheerily greeted me with a
“hello little boy”.
I was mortified. Could it be the plain white pull over polo shirt I was wearing? Or the purple plaid bell bottom pants?
It was obvious it was because of my haircut. Similar to a bowl cut but sheered over the ears. The bangs perfectly straight (following a strategically placed piece of scotch tape). For years I thought the neighbour lady my mother took us to for haircuts was a professional hairdresser that we’d visit after hours. Turns out this wasn’t so.
She was just the neighbour lady.
Most of the time she did a pretty good job.
Except for some serious bang trimming that would push me into that androgynous grey area in which some small children float around for a year or two before puberty arrives in one big greasy, pimply “SURPRISE”.
Since then I’ve learned to rock short bangs. Or I’d like to think so even though they often reek with kewpieness. Or I’ve learned to wait a week until they seem to grow into adulthood.
One of these days I’ll tell you about the “stack perm” I sported in eighth grade!