It's not bangs, it's me. For years, I thought of bangs as the terrible boyfriend some of us have before our frontal lobes have fully developed: You keep getting rid of them only to want them back. You know. When they're good, you're good - everything is perfect. But mostly it's a constant battle and you spend a lot of time screaming at them to behave the way you want them to. Then you miss them when they're gone, you cry into your diary while listening to Brand New or Dashboard Confessional or similar and all your friends want to slap you because you can't talk about anything else. You spend hours staring at yourself in the mirror thinking maudlin thoughts. It's BANGS' fault, you think. If only bangs would change, then everything would be better. Over the years you probably think this about all different types of bangs - tall ones, short ones; blunt ones, side-swept ones. Emo ones.

But then you grow up and realize that maybe bangs aren't entirely to blame; maybe some of it is you. And the fact that you keep picking the wrong ones. And the fact that YOU ARE NOT A HAIRDRESSER, LINDSAY LINEBERRY. STOP CUTTING YOUR OWN HAIR.  It has taken me twenty-six years to learn that if I want to be happy with bangs, what I need to do is really think about what it is I actually want. And then put in some effort. And also pay the nice Hispanic man by the N six dollars to cut them for me.

Only now that I found someone I trust, I'm having anxiety about how often to get them cut. How often is too often? I don't want to seem needy, but I also don't want little hairs poking my eyeballs. And there's always the chance he'll mess them up, nobody's perfect, not even you, Juan! Or Derek, whatever your name is. Francisco I think.

I'm doing so good at posting here every day. See, I can accomplish goals no problemo as long as they're essentially meaningless and helpful to no one. I can also accomplish the ones on the opposite end of the spectrum, like, seeking food and shelter? Got it. If someone might die if it doesn't get done, I will definitely get it done. Anything in between is kind of a crapshoot, though. Unless I'm getting paid to do it, obviously. I'm great at jobs. As of today I'm getting paid a little more to do the job I've been going to every day, which means that the suffocating weight on my chest as I fall asleep every night will lessen slightly. Hopefully. AND THAT'S GOOD.

The other thing I'm good at is selfies. Obviously. Diego bought me an iPhone and I said, Thank you for this selfie machine. I will put it to good use. And I have been. If I take some every single day, I can chart the movement of zits around my chin. And then I'll read everybody's horoscope based on their movement. (FYI, I was sending that first picture to Diego when my boss called me into his office to tell me about the more dollars. WELL EARNED, LINDS.)

It'll be awesome. 

It'll all be awesome.

I made that bigger so you'd notice it and apply it to yourself in case you're having a bad day.

It's true I promise.