To Bang or Not To Bang, That is the Question

I had bangs for the longest time.

It wasn’t by choice initially. Mom would cut my hair after she’d finish buzzing my brother’s (he needed to be bribed with a grape-flavored teddy bear lollipop, I didn’t), giving me straight bangs that cut right across my forehead. It was cute, I’d like to think—but even at such a young age when children’s heads were still too big for their tiny, squishy bodies, my forehead covered more surface area than needed to be proportionate to the rest of my face. It was bulbous, even, but forgivable when you’re a bubbly three year old who loved sautéed spinach and books more than any child ever should. I was always incredibly self-aware and critical: post bangs, my forehead was seemingly… normal.

It wasn’t until I was 8 or so when I realized that I had the option not to bang. It hadn’t even occurred to me that it was (1) a possibility and (2) that I was allowed to something in direct opposition to something my mother did. This was my first act of independence (or rebellion): she’d trim my bangs and I’d pin them right back back. Big kids didn’t have bangs, and the beautiful ballerinas whom I aspired to be certainly didn’t have them either. So every week, before ballet, I’d bobby pin my fringe into submission to mimic the sleek, hairsprayed updos all the older girls at Center Stage wore. It certainly wasn’t the most flattering, but it what I wanted. In my too-pink Capezio tights, for that full hour, I had staked a claim in who I thought I wanted to be.

I’m not sure if I ever grew them out—maybe just long enough to pass as shorter layers that framed around my face—because the awkward pre-teen years have been blocked from my memory. What I do know is that I went right back to them. It was some combination of familiarity and a reality check that my face simply looked better framed. This time I told my hairdresser to do whatever he thought would suit me best.

Larry kept the length, but he gave me side bangs. Twice a year—with my DIY attempts in between visits—for eight years.

Bangs became my safety net. My uniform, my unwavering armor, the security blanket I never had. In fact, I considered them such an integral part of my face that I came to think that bangs were who I was. Without bangs felt naked. No longer me, unrecognizable. I was Kim, with the long hair and bangs—because when half my face was hidden, so were my insecurities. There were the physical ones—fivehead, baby hairs, hairline, the fullness of my face—and then the internal ones—was I beautiful enough?

I got over it soon enough. When you’re old(er), you’re supposed to get wiser—and so instead of bar-hopping or binge-drinking like every bona fide 21-year-old, I chose to pin my bangs back everyday until they grew out completely. Amongst other things, of course—but it’s the little things.

It’s been a year since. I’m still not 100% okay with my forehead, or my hairline, or the ill-behaved baby hairs halo-ing my head, or my face, but c’est la vie. It’s my forehead, bangs or not. All the more for me to kiss, an ex-something once told me, and he would keep pecking at me until I had no choice but to pull it all up.

So take that, insecurities.

.   .   .

xx