A few months ago, I decided I needed to freshen my look.  To that end, I had my hair stylist give me bangs.  I figured they might soften my face and cover up some of those unsightly forehead creases, aka wrinkles.

Here in London, the bangs have proven problematic.  Between the humidity and the tube tunnel winds, my carefully arranged bangs take wing and leave me looking like a startled hedgehog.  Some mornings when I awaken and look in the mirror, I can’t believe what is looking back at me; my fringe is either pointing straight up or straight out.  It doesn’t seem to matter how much product I use, the result is the same.

It has gotten so bad that I am beginning to rethink all of my mockery of Donald Trump’s do.*

*Or as my niece, Bessie, said when she was a wee thing, “That’s not a do, that’s a don’t.”

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