Picture this: It's a weekend afternoon. Your parents/roommate/spouse/children are out doing something productive, and you are sweat-stuck to the couch, wearing a top OR pants but definitely not both.
You think about taking a shower. You walk to the bathroom, because when it comes to personal grooming, showing up is half the battle. (The other half of the battle is remembering to shave both legs, and then return your parent's/roomate's/spouse's razor to its cradle without any visible pubes).
But before you even make it to the shower, you see your reflection in the bathroom mirror (SIN #1) and you do this:
Because you are looking straight tore up.
What can I do to instantly improve my appearance? You ask yourself. You look around for tools. There's a toilet plunger, which would probably only make things worse. There's a toothbrush, which is no help because you're already uncorking the wine. Then your eyes fall on a Walgreen's generic brand mud mask that you purchased sometime in 2007, but even though it has hardened to an impenetrable solid you reason that it might be hard to knock yourself unconscious with it on the first try. And that is really your only choice because you look like Tom Hanks in Castaway.... after he lost Wilson. Yeah, it's bad.
It is only then, in an emotional state best described as "umbrella Britney," that you see the scissors. They're nail scissors, but hey, tomato to-mah-to, right?
I don't know when bangs became such a facial game-changer. I think we can safely blame Zooey Deschanel, who seems to have had a falling out with the real estate above her eyeballs circa the mid-aughts. (Worshipping false forehead idols like Deschanel, TaySwift, and even, Bo forgive me, FLOTUS = SIN #2!) But we all secretly think we would look good with bangs. And so, without fail, you--the you who, so far in this short story, has neglected to take care of basic needs like bathing or wearing both tops and bottoms--become convinced that not only do you NEED bangs, but that you are CAPABLE OF CUTTING THEM YOURSELF. (SIN #3) After all, you make a mean pair of cutoff jean shorts.
You can totally do this, purrs the slovenly, pants less devil on your shoulder. Remember the last time you got your hair cut? It was so easy, you don't need to pay anyone. Just pull the hair straight up, snip like you're making a construction paper snowflake, and loudly speculate as to whether Stacy Kiebler is George Clooney's beard.
Ugh, she totally is, you think, as you pick up the scissors (SIN #4). She is a retired professional wrestler who was on Dancing With the Stars, for God's sake. She's not even a beard, she's like a gross little Billy Bob Thornton soul patch.
You fold some of your hair over your forehead and mug for the mirror. You pretend you are Katy Perry at the VMAs, and that you are wearing a bra made of gummy bears. Yes, you think, I can totally rock bangs.
Totes McGotes! cries the devil on your shoulder.
You hold the hair out in front of you, ironically obscuring your vision. You snip, (SIN #5) visualizing a sexily open-mouthed Jennifer Garner (SIN # 6; no one looks sexy that way in real life).
|This is just one example.|
You examine your handiwork and find that you have cut at a 45 degree angle from your left eyebrow to your right earlobe. You cut again. This time you've gone too short on the right side. Maybe I should quit while I'm ahead and go to a salon, you think, a cool breeze of sanity that blows right through your ears.
Then you remember that you still have to shower and shave and either wash or set fire to the sink full of dishes before your parents/roommate/spouse/children return. You soldier on (SIN #7a), snipping away like a sculptor trying to reveal the masterpiece trapped in a block of marble.
It is your David, your Mona Lisa, your rheumy-eyed portrait of an elderly Kate Middleton. It is also your fault.
Luckily there is still that burrito. And that wine.