I’ve had bangs for the majority of my life. They were mandatory for the Dorothy Hamill haircut I rocked in elementary school and I don’t think you were allowed to remain a child of the ‘80s if you didn’t have high hair. Or Aquanet.

I guess I can blame New Girl for planting “CUT SOME BANGS WOMAN” in my subconscious, because the idea plagued me the entire week leading up to my hair appointment. I decided to dig out old pictures, trying to figure out when I made the decision to grow them out.

Here’s a picture of me in high school.

Rockin’ the bangs, as well as a shirt that I must have accidentally found in the boy’s department. Nice.

Here’s one of me in college.

One of these bangs is not like the other. Clearly, the trend had hit the masses, yet I was unwilling to commit. It’s certainly a possibility that I was oblivious as well. I was still wearing a neckerchief for cyring out loud. I’m confident that the animal print was ahead of my time though.

Here’s one of me when I worked at Disney World after college.

The bangs are doing an interesting “woo-hoo” thing, but I’m unsure if that’s because I was playing around with them or if they were swooped from just riding the teacups.

Then I found this and everything made sense.

That’s my friend Julie. I’ve known her for 25 years. In high school, she taught me about boys, what not to wear and that it was okay to watch the movie instead of reading the book for English class. (I know what you’re thinking and the answer is YES! I did both like a good girl!) When I left Disney World, she opened her home to me and we were roommates for years. At that point in my life, she taught me about home decorating, good Mexican food and to never, ever wear anything grey because it makes me look a little Hep B.

That was the moment I knew I could trust my friend to tell me the truth, no matter what, in any circumstance. And I have counted on her honesty since that day. I have no doubt that Julie was the one who convinced me that I have the forehead that could handle the absence of fringe.

And it’s been bare ever since.

You can imagine my flurries when I marched up to Ashlee (the girl who does my hair) and told her I was contemplating bangs. She sat me down and studied my head.

The relationship between a woman and her hair person is intimate. I trust Ashlee’s judgement because she takes things into consideration that I never do. My hair has changed over the years. Plus, I no longer have my handy Hot Stix to provide ample curl. And I haven’t owned a bottle of hair spray in years. Can I pull off a straight, bang look and not appear to have a wet mop on my head?

Ashlee would know. And roughly 10 seconds after I sat down in her chair, she gave me an answer.

Ash: I’m not feeling it.

So here I sit. Bangless, happy and proud of myself for listening to the professional, because there was that one time Ashlee said, “DON’T GO DARK” but I did anyway and it was HORRIBLE and I will do whatever Ashlee says until the day that I die. She’s already agreed to go with me if I become rich and famous, so that’s been handled. I don’t know what will happen when a cowboy finally whisks me away. Mama said no one else is allowed to touch my hair. Unless Julie suddenly decides to open a salon. At that point, it will be like Sophie’s Choice.

I hope that never happens.