Before I begin, let me just say that I have been be-fringed for the better part of 8 years.
And by fringe, I do not speak of whispy-side-bangs, or a wee spikey toothbrush affair. I’m talking one thick, heavy wall of hair from hairline to eye-lid. My eyebrows have been Fritzeled by my hair; they have not seen sunlight in years. My boyfriend and I have a code, by which I understand the phrase “the children are peeping out of the attic window” to mean that I have a gap in my fringe curtain (yes, really). One time, I biked around Ibiza for a whole day, and the breeze that accompanied my travels swept my hair off my forehead and I suffered from truly dire, blistering sunburn on that secret part of me that had seen fewer UV rays than my very sphincter.
One day, not long ago, I said “Enough”: I am tired.
Tired of straightening it into submission, tired of twice-monthly trims, tired of my entire word-view being 15% impeded at all times. I have now achieved FringeLessNess but it was not easy. It was not fast. And there were many stages to growing out your fringe.
The Decision Not To Trim: whereupon you pick up the scissors, look in the mirror and decideenough. Enough.
The Keeping Of The Decision Not To Trim: whereupon your vision becomes 30%, then 40% impeded, and it is not long enough to sweep behind your ears, and you are too accustomed to Flattering Fringing to pin back the errant strands, and so you live your life in partial darkness, with spiky vengeful ends of hair often in your eyes.
The Eyebrow Issue: whereupon you are forced to face the fact that neglecting to pluck your eyebrows for 8 years has resulted in something between barbed wire and the pubic region of a large chimp and you must do something, even if that involves borrowing the tweezers that your boyfriend purchased solely for use on his nostrils. Somewhat mitigated by the fact that Sperm Brows were the thing when you last your brows saw daylight, and Cara Delevingne Eyebrows have taken their place so you are in.
The Forehead Contemplation: whereupon you contemplate whether it has always been this big? And… shiny?
The First Outing: whereupon your over-long fringe parts neatly in the middle, and your pale, pale forehead peeps through like a virgin from a hairy bower and people say things like “You look different” and “You have changed your hair” but they do not say “You look nice” because you don’t say that to people who have their skirt caught in their knickers and are exposing their bare bottom, even if it is a very nice bare bottom.
The Drunken Scissor Battle: whereupon you arrive home, slightly tearful from an overlarge lot of gin, look at yourself in the mirror and Scorn Your Forehead. Your scissors are still in the bathroom from the last fringe trim and so you hold them, you stare, you poise for the chop – you stop. Because you have willpower and because Diagonal Bangs are Not In Fashion and because you just remembered that you bought a Big Mac and it is still in your handbag.
The Relearning of The Art Of The Hat: whereupon you realize that while no one really needed to teach you how to wear a hat in the first place (Step One: Put on head), you do in fact need to relearn the wearing of hats and beanies and hair accessories because the positioning is all different and now there are eyebrows and hairlines to consider and is this too hard maybe should grow your fringe back?!?!?!
The Arrival of Acceptance: whereupon you have embraced your forehead as a central part of anatomy and attractiveness and realise that the decision ever to cover this beautiful mass of smooth skin with hair was a terrible, awful mishap in your life and who am I kidding get me some fucking scissors.