Intervention

STEP AWAY FROM THE SCISSORS!

That's right. Hello, me. It's you, from three weeks ago.

I knew I'd find you here. Just couldn't help yourself, could you? Thought not. I know me so well...

I'm here from your past, desperately attempting to stop you from what you're about to do. I know you think it's a good idea. That this will solve your problems That this is your only choice. Trust me, it's not. Because I'm you from three weeks ago. I did exactly what you're thinking about doing. And it was a disaster.

Please, please, please don't cut your bangs.

I know it's tough. You're in some weird hairstyle limbo right now. Flagrant strands are poking your eyeballs and tickling your temples. And, since most of them have split ends, their annoyance is doubly armed. Snipping them away seems like the only solution. In fact, it seems like a great idea. You just saw a "news clip" on E! about Taylor Swift and how awesome she looks with blunt cut bangs.

She does. You won't. Because you didn't three weeks ago. I'm serious. Look into my eyes ... which you can clearly see peeking below that bowl cut of mine.

You didn't three weeks ago, and you won't now. You are clearly a side-swept layered kind of girl. Asymmetry is your friend. Nothing about you is ever going to be blunt. Not your conflict-avoiding tendencies, not your last name, and especially not your bangs. They'll cling and clump all over that greasy forehead - let's be honest, fivehead - of ours and never look as sassy as Taylor's fringe does at the American Music Awards.

I know this sounds harsh. But I'm telling you this because I care about you. And I'm writing this after I just finished cutting my bangs harshly. And I'm angry about it. And I'm trying to save you for doing what you (me) have (has) already done. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get you to stop.

That's right: either you step away from the scissors, or I will spend the next three weeks (your past three weeks) making the worst mistakes you've ever made. I'll befriend every coworker you've ever hated on Facebook and make every status update you've ever posted about them public. I'll join The Twitter. I'll repeatedly turn off your alarm clock and make you late to work. I'll give you conjunctivitis. That's right. I'm going nuclear. And I can do it. Don't think I didn't tuck away your favorite eyeliner during your last pinkeye breakout as collateral, and don't think I won't sneak it back into your makeup case.

You can do it! Just hold on! After you get through this awkward stage, I promise you that you'll reach this wonderful place, where your bangs will blend and romantically drape over your ear or cooperatively tuck back into your ponytail. Just think of that nirvana! They'll be quiet. They'll be well behaved. Because they'll be longer, older, wiser. Consider your current bangs in the final stages of adolescence. Sure, they're uber annoying right now. But you need to do what all of the parenting books say. You need to stay strong. You need to be patient. You need to not give in and join in the fray. Eventually they'll come around, find a new place past your temple, move out and join the long hair community.

Please, in the name of all that is Dr. Drew Pinsky, remember three weeks ago. And. Put. The Scissors. Down.

Hey, Look, A Gorilla Mermaid Scaling a Building

My office at work has a window. I'm pretty sure this means that I have peaked professionally at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. But, since I work with mostly nineteen-year-olds, I'm basically the wise old elder of the department village anyway, requiring tributes of doughnuts and quality pens before imparting my sage advice.

Anyway, it's very nice to have a window. To those of you who don't have a window, I'm sorry. I believe you are totally worth receiving residual amounts of vitamin D each day, even if your boss doesn't think you are. Also, you're probably not going to like this post very much. I'm sorry about that, too. You should just stop reading now. In fact, you may not like any future posts I write, not because they'll involve me rubbing my Window Privilege in your face but because you'll probably still be able to see the title of this post in the right column of the blog. See? Right over there. And then it will remind you of the rage that you feel at this very moment. Which is probably only exacerbated by the fact that the only source of light in your office right now is alien light emanating from your computer screen.

Okay, back to my awesome window.

Here's the weird thing about windows and offices. Every time I've ever had an office window (twice), for some reason the layout of the office always forces me to face away from it. It's always to my back or over my shoulder. Now I understand why this gives visiting students and helicopter parents a wonderful vista to gaze across  as I crush each Almost-Adult's I-can-do-anything-despite-my-individual-ability-and-effort dreams. But, come on. Dream crushing takes twenty minutes, max. If that dream is still alive after a half hour, you're just not crushing it right. In no time these kids get to leave (crying), exiting the doldrums of this building. They get to rush into the great outdoors, where glorious rays of sun shine down, illuminating their tears as they fall to the sidewalk. Lucky bastards.

Meanwhile, I'm stuck here day after day staring at a khaki-colored wall, while the wonders of the world spin madly on behind me. Now I can't be sure, but I think this is a good guess as to what went on behind me the other day:

Lesson learned: watch your back, people. There may be gorilla mermaids scaling a building right behind you. (Also, old-timey robbers are all about the wall clocks and soda drinks.)