I missed a self-imposed writing deadline yesterday because I was too busy engaging in retail therapy. I've been restless lately, ill at ease. And instead of spending my money on tried and true self-help techniques, I've been taking matters into my own hands. So I've got a lot of new clothes, and sunglasses, and a couple of pairs of shoes.
I still don't feel any better on the inside, but I will get there, when I've run out of money to spend on other things, I'm sure.
In keeping with tradition, I also got bangs the last time I went in for a haircut. I'd been on the fence about this hairstyle choice for well over 10 years. Actually, I haven't had bangs since the early 90s when women would spend hours in the bathroom blow drying whispy hairs over their forehead with a curl brush the size of their head then topping it off with a half a bottle of hairspray. Needless to say I was a bit nervous about how it was going to turn out.
But fortunately, I started to notice a positive response right away. Strangers seemed more open to engage in conversation with me or to smile at me as I passed them in the street. I began to wonder if getting bangs was the answer to my problems. Perhaps I had an intimidating forehead that, when combined with my resting bitch face, made me unapproachable? Or maybe it's common knowledge that people with bangs happen to be nicer. Whatever it was, I started to feel better about myself.
But just as my current existential crisis started to lift, another worry cropped up. Why hadn't any of my friends or loved ones, the people who endured my montrous forehead for decades and stood by my side despite my shortcoming, noticed that I changed my hair? I mean it was so obvious that something was different about me. Yet none of them said a word.
Was I suddenly living in an alternate reality, similar to the main character in La Moustache? Like Marc Thiriez, the protagonist in that film, would I angrily demand answers from the people cloestest to me, only to hear that I my alteration was a figment of my own imagination? After shaving off his decades-old moustache, Thiriez is told that he never had one. Would my loved ones tell me that I always had bangs. This possibility troubled me, and I questioned whether it was time to seek out professional help from a therapist.
While trying to decide what to do, I found myself watching the parody to La Moustache, Ghost Tits, and decided to drop the matter. Very anti-climatic, like most French films.