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V for Vanity
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I will begin this with my defense. Hair can become a large part of a person, both metaphorically and literally. As those little follicles grow, so does your attachment to the little buggers. Many of us develop these relationships with our hair, no matter how frazzled, curly or flat. From perms–reeking with regret, to mullets–brimming with business (in the front). Given these deep-seated bonds, it is understandable that hair cuts can be momentous experiences. It’s difficult to part with those strands. And in this particular case, I had enough hair chopped off to make a thick sweater for a golden retriever. Trimmed to the chin–and bangs too.

Leaving the salon, I was satisfied, yet fascinated with this new ‘do. It was impossible to keep my nosy fingers out of it. As I combed through the back, the side, the other side, it was so strange to feel it suddenly end before the shoulders. I couldn’t stop looking at it either. As I checked my newly-minted bangs in the rear view mirror, a brown blur came into my periphery. Before my brain could fire those neurons to my leg muscles to break, or even before those neurons could reach my arms to steer out of the way–it was too late. The fate of the chipmunk was sealed. Vanity killed the chipmunk.