I just wish I have the makeup artist skills so I can transform my face into something better and more tolerable to look at every time I get fed up with my face that's as bland as the miso soup I made so I can leave my hair alone. Because, well, haircuts cannot be undone.

You know how I get perpetually bored with my looks that I would cut my hair on my own from time to time.

Don't try this at home. Scissors should always be below the fingers, not over.

I did it again and apparently screwed it up again.

If a hairstylist did this, I could sue. But since I brought the murder upon myself, I could only grieve.

In college, I learned about the 5 stages of grief. We go through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance to learn to live with the one we lost. But grief is not really on my mind. If anything, it could only be this:

Cutting your bangs has only one stage. And that is REGRET. Utter regret.

Come on, vamanos! Everybody, let's go!

Not only because it sucks but because, damn! I have to deal with these vengeful and murderous bangs again when they constantly poke my eyes and render me blind. And oh, don't even get me started with the strands grouping themselves when you sweat, leaving an awkward empty space at the middle of my forehead. Or the possible forehead breakout. Or looking like a Koreanang hilaw or worse, like Dora. Yes, words of regret you read right there.

When will you ever learn, Sarah?

At least, I look cute here.