I hate having hair in my face. But what I hate more is the way I look without bangs. So I tough it out.
Whenever I get my bangs cut, it seems like they are too short for a week, just the right length for four days, then too long for monnnnthhssss. My bangs like to hover at that awkward length that is always a bit too short to tuck neatly behind my ear.
I often find myself tipping my head back so the hair will slide away from my eyes. I tip my head back – and tilt my chin up. As if I am balancing some invisible something on it which is quite likely to fall. I imagine a flash of a white dress ballooning in the breeze and I am Jordan Baker.
Sometimes I look around at the boys in the room and wonder if they would ever notice a raised chin, a tanned brow, a wan mouth. I wonder if one of them might be a Nick Carraway. Maybe one day I’ll be driving and he’ll tell me I’m a rotten driver. I’d take being incurable dishonest if only I could be a jaunty little flapper from the jazz age.
The Great Gatsby is the standard by which I judge beauty. I give up and swat the bangs out of my eyes, groaning a bit and lowering my chin.
