When life gives you lemons, you can make lemonade, or perhaps compost.
I was poised over the sink with my sharpest shears, prepared to administer a between-the-beauty-parlor-visit bang trim. I stretched my wet bangs taut across my brow, and positioned my scissors. Distracted by the cacophony of my three young children, I moved the shears across the hair above my grasping fingers instead of below my fingers. Oh, dear. A copper fringe arranged itself around the drain, winking at me like a giant eye. My ridiculous visage in the mirror reminded me of someone. Oh yes, Angelina Jolie from Girl, Interrupted, that’s who I see. I now have the half-inch bangs of a crazy woman. Only, I don’t look quite as lovely as Ms. Jolie. Not one to cry over spilled milk (or butchered locks), I gather the hair from the drain, and add it to my compost pile.
