Warning, the following may be triggering for some people. If it is to you, please seek the opinions and services of a hair care professional.

I have to admit it. I’m an emotional cutter, and I always have been. Cutting is a subject that is hard to talk about, let alone own up to because it’s so weird. It’s a grizzly habit, an OCD trait that nobody seems to understand, not the way I do it anyway.

You could say I’m an A-typical cutter. For one thing, I don’t hide razor blades under my mattress or pack extra sharp knives in my underwear drawer, nothing like that. No, my self-mutilation is more gruesome. I am an emotional hair cutter, specifically BANGS.

My infinity for self-trimming has gone on for as long as I can remember. I have flashes of moments from my childhood of niggling a pair of scissors and cutting a blunt line, separating a curtain of hair from the rest.

It didn’t matter if my hair was wet or smoothed down with a comb. Or if I was in front of a mirror or behind my dresser in my bedroom, the haircut always turned out looking the same.

I’ve never really addressed this issue, and I’ve never grown out of it. I’m still doing it and not necessarily because I’m upset or frustrated. I don’t seek out a pair of Spring Mounted Shears because I’m numb and need to feel something (I mean, I am and I do, but that’s not why I’m a tresses cutter).

For me, age only made it possible for me to pay someone else to cut my hair for me. But my issue has not gotten better, and neither has my hair for that matter.

It’s the same old thing, on hair appointment days, I will leave my house telling myself that I will not go blonde. I will not get a pixie haircut. I WILL NOT CUT BANGS. I return home two hours later, looking like Billy Idol (the elderly Mr. Idol nowadays, just out of rehab, not the cool 1980’s Billy).

I do think the weather has something to do with the urge, kind of like Seasonal Affective Disorder or SAD—I have that, too, only my acronym comes with an extra letter, SSAD.

From January through the end of March, I have chronic Seasonal Scissor Affective Disorder, and, inevitably, I will slice myself a nice meaty chunk of hair, right off the front. I don’t know why it is that the pinking shears come out when the sun goes down!

When am I going to stop the cycle of self-abuse? When am I going to put down Instagram and understand that although there are some, those rare creatures who can sport a lovely healthy fringe, that I AM NOT SOMEONE WHO LOOKS GOOD IN BANGS?  

Yesterday, after spending hours upon hours of scanning and pinning images off Pinterest, I made an appointment to get my hair professionally cut. I was nervous. I didn’t want to feel the shame of my choices resting right across my brow. I didn’t want my husband to walk around the corner, and upon seeing me, jump, his face going ghastly white, and then ask, “Oh no! What did you do?”

And I didn’t want to spend the next eight months trying to grow out my mistake. So, I went to the salon armed with a post-it-note stuck to my chest.

            “Under no circumstances are you to cut BANGS!”

Today, I sit at my computer. My hair is a little shorter in the back, and I’m happy to report, I am bang-free for now.

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