Fringe.



So, two days ago, I got a fringe.

And not just a side fringe- that was a few weeks ago. No. It is a wispy/ blunt fringe which cuts across my forehead in jagged lines, seeking entry into my eyes, yet failing. Ha ha, that's because it's too short to reach.

But alas, I digress.

I have determined that I have a love/hate relationship with fringes. My last adventure into the fringe-world was in year 10, when I was at the tender age of 16. Back then, I had no income (except for the measly $20 my parents dished out reluctantly every week, almost always threatening to take it away if I did not clean my room/house properly), and therefore, no money to spare for such necessities as GOOD HAIRDRESSERS. So instead, I allowed my mother to cut my fringe. I thought I looked nice. I thought it was cute and pretty and became me.

No.

Looking back at those photos, I now see that I, in fact, looked like a little oompa loompa, with red hair (sigh), and a short fringe that curled inward, curtsy of my wavy hair. I had a shoddy hair straightener, no style and no income- think about it.

So what persuaded me to go for the front-chop now, you say? Simple. 'The Devil Wears Prada". Those who know me are by now nodding their heads, rolling their eyes and saying 'of course'. Let me explain; that movie, although 4 years old (which is about a century in fashion), is still, nonetheless, a representation of the world which I wish to enter. The characters, although 'technically' wearing outdated clothes, have true style; they are chic and elegant, and yes, they have fringes. And let me tell you, that a fringe, done WELL, can be the difference between Couture and Supre. Audrey Hepburn and Paris Hilton. You get the drift.

So, although I was horrified at first, I now have come to accept my fringe, and even slightly delight in it. I look shaggy, I look different, I look ok.

Thumbs up for the fringe.