In a fit of violent passion,

Ryan cut his hair.

But not just a hair, or even his hair, mind you.

No, he completely and singularly severed his beautiful golden bangs. His forelock, if you will.

see?

And now he bears a powerfully striking resemblance to:

[photo here]

Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. He was (and is) a very impressive and influential individual.
I keep explaining to Ryan that monk bangs are a good thing. Sexy.
And yet, he keeps insisting that it's somehow my fault.
Like it's a bad thing.

Well! What was I supposed to do when he grabbed his bangs and threateningly held scissors to them while shouting, "Say I'm your boyfriend! Say it right now or I'll cut!"

Maybe I panicked.

Maybe I said "You can be my boyfriend two times a week," which he took to mean... well. "Cut," I suppose. 

Love, trauma, and the Protestant Reformation,

Banana