On the Fringe
Throwing things off a hair to pursue a growing desire.
Life as I know it has been a series of phases. Over the span of three decades, I feel as though I have lived three dozen lives. I’d relive some in a heartbeat, I’d revisit others to see old friends and beloved pets, and I’m lucky to have survived quite a few more. For nearly all of them, I’ve had bangs. I’ve had looks.
Long bangs, short bangs, even shorter bangs, side bangs, 70s bangs, and couldn’t-wait-to-see-a-professional-crooked bangs. The styles are endless, the self expression potential vast. I’ve defied my natural brunette mane over the years and have dyed them green, blue, purple, pink, blonde, and *shudder* big apple red. When my husband and I met eight years ago, I had chin-length chromatic green hair. We dated while I ROYGBIV’d myself like no one was watching. On our honeymoon three years later, I stepped out of our van and into a hair salon in Canada to chop six inches off just because. When we bought a …