My Magical Pet

November 28, 2010
If I’m known for anything in school, it’s my side-swiped bangs.

I’m a bit self-conscious about my forehead. I’m convinced that my forehead is covered with acne, makes my head look bigger, and scrunches up like an old geezer every time I frown. So I’ve decided that the only non-surgical and affordable solution for this common adolescent feeling of shame is to take a generous helping of my hair and sweep it over to the side, blanketing the skin completely. If you think about it, it’s just like what you would always do in fifth grade when you made a bad grade on a spelling test: hide it under the rug.

Defined by the “inter-webs”, there are two types of categories for the hairstyle I have: emo and scene. Emo is when it’s dyed a sleek ink-black and is covering one eye, and scene is virtually the same thing; however, while it doesn’t have to be black, it’s necessary to apply dread locks, stripes, colors, and sometimes even a tiara. A lot of internet stars have these types of hair.

Not wanting to be classified as emo or scene, I kept my hair my natural bear-colored brown.

A few girls in my class had the same hairstyle as me during freshman year; I’ve counted about three. Why they didn’t keep their emo-licious hair sophomore year, I don’t know. I think part of it is that their bangs used to be cut that way, but now that they’ve grown out, they’ve become out of control. Or maybe they like people seeing their faces. Whatever their reasons, I was the only one to maintain the bangs all the way up to sophomore year, and I guess I’ve gained some recognition for that.

For example, we were working in a group project and one quiet girl in my group kept staring at my forehead as I was trying to explain the characteristics of Joan of Ark. Without warning, she reaches over and strokes my bangs. I’m well aware that I attend a madhouse all-girl school, but there are still such things as boundaries. I ask her why the heck she was touching my forehead-hair, and she replied, “I don’t know, but that’s just how I imagine them feeling!” Another girl touched my bangs. “Oh Em Jee! You’re right! I imagined them feeling that way, too!”

Why would my bangs feel a certain way different from the rest of my hair? I didn’t understand.

I began to respect my bangs a lot more that day. My bangs are like the pet my mother won’t let me have, the trademark of my fashion sense, my Robin to my Batman. I am respected by classmates because of my bangs and laughed at by superiors because of my bangs, but I take criticism with pride, because I know who’s in charge of my hairstyle when I step out of the shower.

Sure, they can be a bit heavy on the right side of my head. Sure, I have to shake my head occasionally to see perfectly clear, but with glory comes sacrifices, and sacrifices I shall take.

And ten years from now, I’m going to look at the 2009-2010 yearbook and scream, “What the hell was I thinking?”





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