13 years old, bangs, George Harrison, and Stevie Nicks

The title I wanted to give today's text was, in fact: How George Harrison ruined my hair when I was 13 and how Stevie Nicks fixed it 10 years later. But it was too long! In my first post, we covered the beginning of The Beatles' lore; however, there are many branches within it. Branches that grew and transformed into different indicators of madness and red flags. One of these branches, which contains several other small branches: George Harrison. For many, a great musician, for me, one of my greatest recorded hyperfixations and a soulmate.

If you were on the internet in the early 2010s and weren't a voracious fan of some artist, I'm sorry, but you didn't experience one of the last good sensations our Gen Z could experience. At that time, my frontal cortex wasn't 100% developed yet, so when The Beatles crossed the Abbey Road of my heart... Something shifted. Shit's about to get real weird. The result was chronic mental complications that I will carry with me until the end of time.

I was struck by the love bug of Beatlemania 50 years too late, and I vividly remember having the following mental realization while consuming online content about the band: Wait a minute... I think they're kind of hot! And they were, the kind of ugly-hot that every woman knows how to appreciate. Before choosing the owner of my heart, I had already loved John, Paul, and Ringo, but it was George who left me in a true whirlwind of passion: chaotic, intense, and disordered.

At the height of my 13 years, I was sure that our souls were connected in some way. A connection so strong that it linked us across dimensions. Life and death (after all, he passed away a year after I was born!). Death was just a detail, and there was no excuse my brain (or lack thereof) couldn't create to justify these crazy and intrusive thoughts.

Now, seriously, of course, I was very interested in the valuable content The Beatles had to offer me. To this day, I dream of the most perfect melodies I've ever heard in my life, but back then, I just wanted a prince to illustrate my personal fantasies. Today, more than 10 years later, the notion that they were four men of questionable character has changed the fantasy. My love hasn't diminished! But it has changed.

The first concrete and visible proof of my madness was cutting bangs. At 13, with a childlike face (very different from the new 13-year-old human versions we see around today), I was sure that this act would automatically convert me into a 60s mod. Something that, of course, would bring me even closer to Him (George). For me, this gesture was a trigger: following the haircut, a Ford Anglia would park at my house (in São Carlos) full of bohemians à la The Mamas and The Papas and cross the barriers of time to 1960s London. I would get out of the car in my yellow mini-dress and Carel ballet flats and run into the arms of love. From then on, we would live happily ever after!

An excerpt from Rita Lee's autobiography that perfectly represents me.

Now, obviously: I looked horrible. The whole fantasy was crushed by my sad reality, and instead of spending eternity in the arms of my favorite Beatle with my model bangs, I spent an endless night: crying and being comforted by my family as if I had just suffered a terrible loss... And I had. I lost what little beauty was left there.

The day dawned and my bangs didn't magically grow overnight. The only fact among so many daydreams was that I looked terrible, and I had to go to school. I was grieving, grieving for being increasingly far from looking like Pattie Boyd. Pattie Boyd was George Harrison's wife during the 60s, and the female rivalry I created with her in my head was so strong that I think it could be felt telepathically. Could she, at 70, imagine that in the interior of São Paulo, Brazil, a 13-year-old girl hated her with all her might?

Of course, this was all envy, and for extremely justifiable reasons. She had long and perfect legs, blonde hair, huge blue eyes, had been married to my crush, and even her gapped teeth were much more charming than mine, which had braces. Oh, and of course, to top it all off: she had perfect bangs. And I hated her VERY much for it. As if, at the end of the day, it was all her fault, and not my unbalanced mind. Today, 12 years later, she's my icon!

Obviously, as life went on, I developed PTSD directly linked to bangs, but in 2021, I had the nerve to decide to cut that crap again, and this time, I didn't just ruin the bangs but my whole head of hair. The bangs were a bit more subtle (at the time, curtain bangs were trending), but I blame the hairdresser more for layering my entire hair and leaving me with a pseudo mullet than my still dormant dream of having bangs. Once again, we let my hair grow out, and 2023 marked my comeback.

2023 was the year I developed a new obsession with Fleetwood Mac, a band I already knew but hadn't fallen deeply in love with yet. Just like with The Beatles in 2013, I started consuming a lot of content about the band, especially about the queen Stevie Nicks. As my admiration for the diva grew, I decided to read a biography to better understand who this angelic figure was, and I'm sure it was an experience similar to Moses's in Exodus, seeing the glory of God.

Inspired by the queen and with the help of my mother, who is chronically online and saw an Instagram ad for a modern salon, I managed, 10 YEARS LATER, to get the perfect bangs. Still very apprehensive, I went and cut them at a safe length, which gradually got shorter, and today, my self-esteem depends on them! I can finally say that I've moved past that episode, made my peace with Pattie Boyd, my love for George Harrison has turned into normal admiration, and I love Stevie Nicks more and more every day. Amen!

For the record, here's the page from my diary that gave me the idea to write today's text.

Thanks for reading, and see you next week!

A kiss and a cheese,