The Bangs That Never Were

When I was young, my mother used to cut my hair herself and she kept all of her children in bangs up until we were in junior high school. I haven't had bangs in about twenty-five years, but I had been hankering for a change, so I decided that when I went for my haircut, I was going to get bangs.

I've tried to get bangs before, but many hairdressers have talked me out of it, saying that my forehead was too small, my hair was too stiff, I'm too lazy for the upkeep, blah, blah, blah.

When I call up the salon I go to, I was told that my (very expensive) hairdresser was out of town for the next few weeks on vacation. I've had my hair cut with the other senior stylist they have, but I wasn't that happy with it, so I googled around for another salon who can do Asian hair. I found this Japanese hair salon in Scarsdale and thought, "Well, they're Asian, so they should do Asian hair well, right?"

I got there and I told the guy that my hair was really thick, so I wanted my hair thinned out and that I wanted short bangs. However, I did ask him if he thought that my hair could do bangs. He looked at me and said, "Yes, of course."

An hour later, I looked like a mulletted rat.

And I don't know why, because I was paying for a VERY EXPENSIVE haircut, but I didn't want to make a fuss. When the guy looked at my hair, he gave me his card and even offered to fix it if I didn't like it. You know it's bad when the stylist is already offering that while you're still sitting in his chair. I said it looked cute because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Meanwhile, I was crying in the car on the way home.

This is why I had my friend Marisol come with me to get my hair put up the day of my wedding. I needed a hair advocate because when I'm sitting in that chair, I lose all ability to think straight and I'm so afraid of hurting the stylist's feelings that I don't ask for what I want.

So now I've been pinning back my bangs until they grow back, which according to google will be six months.

The Bra Whisperer

I was sitting at a good-bye lunch with the magazine gang last week (our managing editor and three interns were leaving us for greener pastures) and I kept tugging at my bra because it was chafing my right boob. I was trying to figure out what was wrong and I thought that perhaps after all these years of practice, I had simply put my bra on all twisted up. I was sitting there sipping my extremely delicious butternut squash soup with dollops of creme fraiche when I simply could not take it any longer and went to the bathroom to investigate.

Yes, I went to the bathroom and took off my bra. And it wasn't all twisted, in fact, the underwire had BROKEN IN HALF. Yes people, my boob broke the underwire in my bra.

In the past I've had underwires just poke out and decide to leave themselves on Boston's Newbury Street. Apparently, Boston likes to see me without a bra on.

But this was the first time the underwire BROKE IN HALF. I asked all my friends if that had happened to them before and they were like, "Uhm. No. What's wrong with your boob?"

Unfortunately, my publisher and I had a very important meeting so I couldn't just go braless, so I MacGyvered the damned thing with some rolled up paper towels to act as wire supports.

That's when my publisher told me about the Orthodox Jew Bra Lady, who is the New York Bra Whisperer. She can look at any woman and know instantly what size bra she should were.

"Do you think that it'll be weird to tell them that I'm just going to wear it out of the store like a pair of shoes?" I asked.

"Are you kidding me?" she said. "ALL of my friends walk out of there wearing their new bras."

Unfortunately, when we drove by, it was CLOSED. Nerts!