Hairdressers R(n't) Us.

I cut my bangs the other day. Intuitively, I know that this is a horrible idea, truly horrible. But every so often--let's say, just for fun, about every 14-20 days--my bangs get to the Ugly Stage. It's really not fair that they devolve into the Ugly Stage so frequently (and so suddenly), but, alas. It's one of the trials I must bear. And once the Ugly Stage hits, I have three choices:

1. Grow the bangs out. They're more trouble than they're worth with their constant demands for attention.
2. Leave them alone and let them shine in all their glory, in spite of the Ugly Stage. It's possible that only I notice the Ugly Stage, isn't it? (I can usually convince myself of this until about 3 in the afternoon, at which point their long and therefore bedraggled state can no longer be denied, even by such an incurable optimist as myself.)
3. Cut them. How hard is it, after all, to find the demarcated patch of bangs and trim just a centimeter or so off? Really?

I have, over the past six months since my last haircut, made all three decisions. For a few days, I leave them be, trying to convince myself that it isn't that bad. Then I pin them back, resolved to return to the respectable land of No Bangs. Invariably, however, I arrive at what may be a cyclical spur-of-the-moment realization that my forehead is too enormous to be bang-free in the current bang-friendly environment, and I take my hair into my own hands.
And then for a few days I end up with this:
So my point is: if you see me walking about with mini bangs, it's not that I'm having illusions about my age or about what group of kids I would hang out with were I cursed with having to return to junior high. No. It's just sloth.