Mary needs bangs. The whole point of her getting a haircut is bangs. She'll look better. She'll see better. But whenever I think about giving Mary bangs, I become paralyzed . . . with fear . . . of seventh grade.
You see, I decided to grow out my childhood bangs in the seventh grade. Growing bangs out is miserable, especially at a time, like 1989, when it was not socially acceptable to simply pin them back with a bobby pin. Seventh grade itself was miserable enough. So miserable that I still can't laugh about it, which means I can't write about it, so you are spared from reading about my seventh grade woes. (I'll let you know when seventh grade seems funny to me.)
The effect of growing out my bangs in the seventh grade is that the misery of Parkway South Junior High and the misery of having incorrigible hair in my eyes is all intertwined and inseparable in my head. I know it makes no sense, but I am convinced that if Mary gets bangs, she is doomed, at some point, to a year as awful as my twelfth. I feel like I should not make this decision my own. That I should wait until Mary and I can sit down and have a frank discussion about the pros and cons of bangs. I don't want her to suffer ten and a half years from now for a choice I made on her behalf when she was a baby.
But since her vocabulary primarily consists of the words "apple," "bum-bum," and the sign for "drink," I think our discussion will have to wait a few years. Which means the decision is mine to be made. I guess that's what parenting is all about: Making decisions for your children and hoping they don't hate you for it in the long-run. On Thursday I decided for the two-hundredth time, "No bangs."
BUT . . . today is Tuesday. And I decided, "Yes bangs." Don't hate me, future-Mary-who-wants-to-grow-out-her-bangs-and-wishes-she-never-had-them. You look really cute.
And when it comes to seventh grade, if it's that bad, I promise to home school you or buy you eight pairs of Guess? jeans, whichever you prefer.
