I have had a fringe since I was 15 years old. I will never forget this life-altering haircut. For years before it I had been suffering lingering effects from a bob cut I received unwillingly in primary school. You were not a cool person if you had a bob as an adolescent in the early 2000s. But finally, my hair had grown sufficiently for styling, and I got it cut to sit neatly on my shoulders with front bangs. Suddenly, boys were asking me on dates. My social status levelled up. I had transformed my identity overnight, going from Lord Farquaad in Shrek to Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. Flash forward to my 30s, and the fringe remains my safety blanket. It is my identity. My friend, and sometimes, my foe. It is my friend when it is fresh and fabulous after a haircut, sitting perfectly on my eyebrows. Then, inevitably, I let it grow out so long it becomes more of a side partthat sits on my eyes or flows behind me in the wind, like a shire horse with a poorly cut mullet.…