Everybody says cut my hair

I have a new hairstyle.

It's nothing drastic—if you saw me right now, you might not even notice. I've got the new swoopy bangs that are all the rage with the kids right now. Mine swoop to the left and are aaaaalmost long enough to tuck behind my ear.

Anyway, having the new bangs is not so terribly interesting (unless you're like me and you CANNOT stop playing with your hair, ever). What is interesting is how I got them. I actually let my sister cut my hair.

You have to understand the magnitude of this event. For an adult woman, I am entirely too attached to my hair. I've lost all perspective. I feel intensely uncomfortable letting licensed professionals touch my hair because once I figure out what works with a certain cut, I don't want to have to figure it out again. That's the reason my hair is as long as it is: stylists can't mess it up (and neither can I). So allowing E4, who is neither a licensed professional nor even a high school graduate, to touch my hair was an act of total trust. Or total unwillingness to pay for a real haircut.

The thing is, though, that E4 has very cute swoopy bangs. And then the other sister (Juliette Lewis!) got them—and, in a Single White Female twist, hair color the same as E4's. Since their hair is roughly the same texture and curliness as mine, I wanted them too, and the girls assured me that they were very easy to create.

So tonight I sat on the toilet lid in front of E4 and asked her four times if she was sure that she knew what she was doing.

"Have you done this before?"
"Yeah, no problem."
"To whom?"
"Nothing."

This was not reassuring, or even comprehensible. But the parting, the measuring, and the snipping proceeded, and now I have adorable bangs hanging in my face and irritating my mother, and I look even more like my sisters. And every time they look at me, they can see my bangs and know that I love them. Or that I'm very cheap. Either way.