Look over to the right a few inches. You see that picture over there? Uh-huh, that one. The one in the black square with my name written in white. Yeah, that’s me, but I don’t look much like that anymore.

I’ve found the cool thing about column pictures is that they allow one to remain sort of ageless. In a picture that small, you can’t make out any wrinkles. And with it being just a head, no one sees saddlebags or bad posture or those really big “freckles.” I think I was 37 or 38 when that was taken. Now I’m 42. I don’t look like I did in that picture. At least, not anymore.

This is where, if I was feeling mischievous, I might try to convince you that I now look just like Britney Spears with a shaved head, but that wouldn’t be true. In reality, I went the complete other direction. I look like I copied Cousin It.

If you wanted to get a more accurate idea of how I look now, you could take a brown pencil and draw hair over approximately two-thirds of my face. To complete the drawing, you might want to then take a gray pencil and add a few wiry lines in with the brown, then take a black pencil and shade circles under my eyes. (I’ve always had circles, but they’ve grown more aggressive and powerful these past few years, and are now capable of overpowering even the strongest concealor in a fraction of the time it used to take.)

About six months ago, at my daughter’s prodding, I decided to grow out the bangs that I’ve worn since junior high. Celeste insisted bangs were on their way out, and that I should–for once in my life–try to be stylish. I lifted my hair to show her the tremendous forehead and wooly worm eyebrows that prompted me to have bangs in the first place, but she couldn’t be swayed. My bangs needed to go. 

There is no cute or graceful way for a woman my age to grow out her bangs. The Pebbles look only works with preschoolers, and headbands and barrettes are for schoolgirls. During this stage, I’ve basically had two options–the sheepdog look, or the pulled-back, oh-my-God-that-woman-has-caterpillars-on-her-Frankenstein-forehead look. Neither were attractive.

Going into this, I didn’t realize the excruciatingly long time it would take for my bangs to grow out. I tried everything to try to make myself presentable during this time, but mostly I’ve been brushing my hair back, then pasting it in place with enough hair spray to make my cats sneeze from two rooms away.

Many times I’ve been tempted to grab the scissors and snip-snip away. The heck with what Celeste wants. Fashion be darned! I’ve had essentially the same look for two decades. What harm would a few more years do?

I was standing at the bathroom mirror, scissors in hand, when I remembered a little episode from my 20-year high school reunion.

I had been at the reunion, talking with my friend Don Patton, who now lives in Atlanta, when a former cheerleader rushed up to hug him. After gushing on about him for a bit, she decided to acknowledge my presence.

“Oh, Karin,” she said, after making a point of having to read my nametag. “Wow. You haven’t changed a bit.”

I smiled. Until she continued.

“Actually, nothing about you has changed,” she said. “Not even your hair. But that’s okay. I’ve heard that style is coming back.”

Then, with a satisfied flip of her head, she flounced off.

I put down the scissors. That memory was all I needed to stay the course. I would draw strength from it.  That aging cheerleader would help me. I will be free of these bangs. I will no longer be the antithesis of fashion.

And if I end up not being patient enough, I expect Britney will likely have made that other option fashionable once again.

This entry was posted on Monday, February 26th, 2007 at 2:10 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.