Bang Bang Chop Chop

I'm in the middle of bangs detox.
I periodically go through these phases where I lust for the long grown-out locks of the likes of Kesha (I refuse to use the $. I'm just a rebel like that) and Mischa Barton. I imagine myself blonde, flinging my hair back into the wind, causing boys to fall at my feet in awe and wonder.

Shhh...Don't tell Kelly she'll never look like me.

But then I inevitably fail and chop my bangs off before I even have the chance to morph into someone I'm not and never will be. And oftentimes, I hack them off in a rage of urgent desire, making them all crooked and far too thick.

This time I'm determined. They're grown out to just above my lip (insert mustache joke here).

But I've got the itch.

I keep gazing longingly into the mirror, only half-heartedly enjoying the progress of my bangs grow-out.
I want to cut them.
Badly.
I need to be stopped.
Hopefully the fact that my hands are shaking from withdrawals will deter me from attempting to cut my hair.
At least for now.