That’s exactly it. One day I love them, the next day I hate them.
One day they behave and do what they are supposed to, which means I’m pretty likely to have a good hair day, which in turn means I at least start the day in a good mood.
The next day my chances of taming them are about the same as taming a wild animal—and I don’t even have the experience of training pets. When my bangs misbehave I get aggravated and overheat while I’m getting ready, and that usually makes me run late, and I walk out the door in a bad mood. Then I spend the day wondering if I should cut them myself later (and you know how that turns out—especially if there’s wine involved).
I wish I didn’t have bangs, but I don’t look good without them. Even if I could get past that, I don’t think I’d have the patience to grow them out—unless I was holed up in a cabin in Vermont somewhere finishing my novel, interacting with no one.
You see? It’s a vicious cycle. I want to grow them out, I know I could never do do that…I love them, I hate them...Which means, I suppose, that maybe most of all I hate that they have so much influence on my mood.
Bangs, be damned!