Bangxiety /bæŋˈzaɪ.ə.ti/ n. The idea that wanting bangs is rarely (if ever) about wanting bangs.
I sat down in the salon chair, looked straight into my hairdressers’ eyes, and said “I want bangs. Don’t try to talk me out of it.” To my surprise (and horror), she obliged. About thirty minutes into the haircut, she asked “So… what’s wrong?” I could sense her unease as she asked the question. And it’s a fair question—when a woman triumphantly declares that she wants to enter (or likely, re-enter) the world of forehead hair, it’s usually because something has happened. Something big. The reason is never about channeling the aloof energy of Jessica Day (New Girl), or finally having an excuse to wear that edgy motorcycle jacket. Oh no. Bangs are a symbol—a cry to the universe that says, “I am taking control of something, even if it’s just the three inches of hair above my eyebrows.”
Let’s get back to the earlier question: “So, what’s wrong?” To answer that, I’m going to provide you all with a brief timeline of the past eighteen months. It’s important to say from the top—this is for context, not complaining. I spend far too many hours of my life complaining about my current situation, so I do not need to do it here. But forehead fringe necessitates explanation, and that is what I will attempt to provide for you all:
June 27, 2023: MRI confirms that I am bone-on-bone in my left knee, and will require a two-part surgery. I continue all my usual hobbies and activities, knowing that my days of doing so are numbered.
October 27, 2023: Surgery #1—surgeon repairs two of three meniscus tears, and takes a biopsy of cartilage for the graft transfusion surgery.
November 6, 2023: I notice a strange pain in my calf while recovering; vascular imaging confirms DVT (blood clot)—begin three-month treatment of anticoagulants and extreme anxiety about dying from a pulmonary embolism. The anticoagulants had a sneaky surprise: not only are they astronomically expensive, but they also necessitate that I immediately stop taking birth control. Going cold turkey on hormone regularity after twelve years is sure to go well, right?
December 13, 2023 (happy birthday!): Pfizer Inc. acquires my company, voiding the insurance authorization for my second sugery and cancelling the sugery date. I go through open enrollment to learn about the new insurance plan and attempt to reschedule surgery ASAP in 2024.
January 2, 2024: My new insurance company informs me that this surgery will require something called a “purchase order” for the actual cartilage graft. I learn in the following days that this means the hospital/outpatient clinic will have to prepay for the graft, and then the insurance company will reimburse the hospital directly. I begin working with my surgeon to find any hospital in Washington that will accept these terms (spoiler: no one ever did).
January 18, 2024: 10-weeks post-op from surgery #1, I attempt to jog for the first time (with no success). My quad, hamstring and calf have all experienced significant atrophy, but I continue the work to get it ready for surgery #2.
March 28, 2024: After three months of fighting with my new insurance provider, I make the decision to pay for the surgery entirely out-of-pocket (cost estimate: down payment for Seattle home). I remind myself that “I can always grow more money, but I can’t grow a new knee.” Words that continue to haunt me to this day.
April 16, 2024: I find out that I have the option to accept a severance package from Pfizer at the end of October 2024. This is very relieving news to hear, and gives me a bit of hope before the surgery. Though I hate the unknown, not having a plan, and feeling out of control, the option to not worry about work for a few months feels like a welcomed reprieve.
April 26, 2024: Surgery #2—MACI cartilage graft is implanted, and the 18-month recovery window is finally opened. I wake up from surgery feeling a strange mix of emotion, both excitement and dread about hitting the “reset button” and doing this recovery all over again. Fortunately, the nurse can read the emotions on my face and hits me with a very sympathetic (and generous) dose of fenantyl before I am discharged.
April 27—June 30, 2024: With the exception of my brother’s wedding in California and my friend’s wedding in Oregon, these weeks have been completely erased from memory. I was on bedrest for the first eight weeks, getting up only to shower every couple of days (don’t judge). My biggest accomplishment during this time was starting and completing 19 seasons of Grey’s Anatomy—which did nothing to quell my aforementioned paranoia about pulmonary embolisms. Fortunately, the anticoagulants did their job.
June 14, 2024: I wince and grit my way through two full rotations on the stationary bike. I feel like crying, but I don’t want my physical therapist to see me as anything other than resilient. As much as I dislike the stationary bike (I desperately want to ride my real ones again), I’m grateful to make circles with my feet again.
July 1, 2024: My physical therapist takes my crutches from me and tells me it’s time to learn to walk again. Those first ten steps were humbling. As have been all the subsequent ones. The pool at LA Fitness gave me my first successful “walks” until my leg was strong enough to support my body weight (which, if we’re being honest, is much heavier than it was pre-surgery). The ladies in the aquatherapy class give me love and encouragement as I crutch myself pool-side.
August 2024: The physical battle is far outpacing the mental one—I oscillate between screaming into a pillow and crying for most of the days, but work brings some sort of grounding force and routine. I fight against intense FOMO, feeling detached from myself and my partner, and chronic pain. On the plus side, my range of motion improves, and I am cleared to start swimming again. My leg looks like a wet noodle, and is equally as effective as a limb.
September 16, 2024: Diagnosed with PCOS—queue the onslaught of supplements, bloodwork, and research to learn how to best manage this condition without birth control. Start working with a dermatologist to fight the horrific, ance-ridden canvas that has become my face. Trying to see this as a distraction from the knee stuff, even if it is trading one uphill-battle for another.
November 1, 2024: My last day of employment. I create a detailed plan for how I will best organize my weeks to accomodate appointments and downtime. Optimism increases without the distraction of work.
November 3, 2024: I notice something interesting (and alarming) during my first few days of unemployment—as my ability to regain an active lifestyle increases (walking, stationary cycling, swimming, weight lifting, balance), my motivation to actually engage in those activities diminishes. I see this as a red flag and find a sports psychologist to try and help me sort out my feelings. I explain to him that my knee feels like a baby in an airplane—something I acknowledge and tolerate when it cries, but also something I no longer recognize as my own flesh and blood (and therefore feel no responsibility to help).
November 5, 2024: The election result is confirmed, hours before I meet with a surgeon for a second opinion on the health of my knee. The chronic pain and swelling results in scheduling surgery #3—I opt to have it at the end of the month so I can try to enjoy the birthday and Christmas plans that were (optimistically) booked months earlier. By eight months post-op, I had hoped I would be much further along.
December 3, 2024: A call from my physical therapist interrupts an otherwise good day. I am told that my insurance company has not been remitting payment for any of my sessions since July (due to an administrative issue). I am released as a PT patient and begin the process of filing a formal complaint with the Insurance Commissioner. I struggle to understand what to do about my upcoming surgery without the help of a physical therapist. The pro? I have three fewer appointments every week to drive to. The con? I’ve mentally snapped.
December 6, 2024: “I want bangs. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”
So there you have it. Getting bangs feels like the easiest thing I’ve done all year. Besides, bangs are nothing like knees—if they’re horrible, they’ll grow back.
