If you have bangs, you have a problem

The moment you stand in front of the bathroom mirror and decide you're going to cut your bangs yourself is one of those dramatic moments that inexplicably repeat periodically in the life of almost every woman (those of you who live without furry visors... I envy you). I imagine it must be comparable to the moment you decide to have another child; "the veil of the virgin," as they call it in Venezuela, falls over your memory, and you no longer remember the sleepless nights or the backaches. You think about it and conclude that "it wasn't that bad after all," and before you know it, zap, you've once again given yourself a two-finger bob above your forehead that makes two bitter tears of rage roll down your cheeks. Well, that's what I did yesterday—the bangs, of course; the child, forget about it.

The photos have nothing to do with the text; I had nothing to illustrate it with and preferred to decorate it with images taken on the streets of San Francisco

I got brave, I grew confident, and I was even about to do it with fabric scissors, which, I assure you, could even clean a calf. Luckily, at the last moment, the tidiness of not allowing those scissors to cut ANYTHING that wasn't fabric got the better of me, and I grabbed smaller ones. Thank goodness, otherwise, right now, I might be emitting the same sound as Darth Vader breathing through my brand-new third nostril. The thing is, I cut my bangs, and obviously, and as I already knew beforehand but for some reason preferred to forget, it turned out terrible; so I'll have to go to the hair salon, and that, friends, is where my existential doubts begin.

Four haircuts ago, I found the hair salon of my life. The place is incredibly shabby, and when I say shabby, I don't mean that an assistant who looks like she's from Mordor Shore (they are legion) washes your hair. I mean that while you're sitting there, in the hands of such a person, the fumes of a general waste bin nearby reach you, mixing ammonia with ash and something decomposing. So you have to hold your breath until they move you to the chair. And why do I go? Because the first time I went in by chance, she gave me THE haircut of my life. She read my mind, entered my brain, read my weaknesses, projected my dreams into her hands, and I left there looking like Freja Beha after a day of yachting in Turks and Caicos. With that premise, the following times, I went, kicking my heels in happiness on the way, thinking about my imminent transformation worthy of "Your Face Sounds Familiar," but it wasn't the same. Similar, yes, but not the same. And I don't know what to do, whether to go back and give her another chance or find a new boyfriend.

 Like at the end of every relationship, if I leave him, I think it will be because the problem is me, not him; I don't know what to do with my hair, girl. I feel a strong temptation to get a Natalie V for Vendetta Portman, but I have a bump on my occipital wall that makes me fear I'll end up looking more like a Britney American Psycho Spears. Should I get a really short cut and just be done with all this nonsense? In that case, should I try with my ex from Mordor, or look for a new hipster guy? How many chances do you give your hairdresser to mess up before you switch to another one? Should I stop being such a fan of shabby hair salons and invest in a professional one? Is it worth it, or is the result ultimately the same? What am I saying, why am I even asking? The same, I'm telling you, when I finished college, I went to the most professional salon in Madrid looking for a Carrie Bradshaw hairdo and came out looking exactly like Karmele Marchante. I had already told you that; I forget things, that's why I cut my bangs myself.