Recently, President Obama displayed a fake photo of himself sporting bangs. (You thought I was going to say birth certificate, didn’t you?) It was a lighthearted poke at his wife, First Lady Michelle, for garnering so much attention with her new hairstyle. He looked hilarious, and she looked great, if I may be so bipartisan as to say.

Perhaps the reason I like Michelle’s new “do” is because for most of my life, I've sported bangs of one style or another. Sometimes swept to the side, sometimes long, and as a teen in the 80s, like a stiff window awning, hovering in mid air over my brow. Aqua Net and I had a strong relationship.

I remember a little girl looking up at me in amazement and asking how I got my hair to "do that." I was so proud.

Long before the "Big Bangs" phase, when I was still wearing knee socks held up by rubber bands around my skinny legs, my mother would stand me on the back porch and stick a piece of Scotch tape evenly across my bangs to provide accuracy, and then cut straight above the tape to achieve perfect geekdom.

Mom thought she was doing me a favor by hiding a scar I have above my right eye. It's a boring scar, the result of being a total klutz and falling down on the front porch. Come to think of it, don't most Southerners have front porch scars? Jumping out of the swing or off the porch itself was always a dangerous sport.

Cousin Rosie Belle from Robertsdale once broke her ankle when she fell off her tall front porch. With her long hair hanging over her eyes, she couldn’t see where she was going and tripped over the begonias. Granny called her “Veronica Lake” and we had no idea what she meant, but the minute Rosie Belle got home from the hospital, she was ushered to the porch and had Scotch tape slapped up against her head.

As a teen, I fabricated fabulous stories about my boring scar and swept my hair off my face to show the evidence of falling off Uncle Jimmy Ray's silo or tangling with a bobcat. Factual? Not necessarily. Interesting? You bet.

While on a trip to Italy last year, I peered into the window of a sleek salon and suddenly had the urge for a change. Women sometimes do that, and it's often followed by days of crying.

But I was feeling bold and ready for adventure, so I forged ahead, and in my best Italian—Alabamian, coupled with hand gestures, said, "Per favore, farmi somiglia a una bella donna Italiana?" Which was supposed to mean, "Will you please make me look like a beautiful Italian woman?"

After a brief moment of deciphering my accent, the staff started shouting, laughing and clapping their hands, "Si, si, si!!!" Nothing bonds women around the world more than their desire for great hair. And a little compliment goes a long way.

It was like party time as they grabbed me and pushed me into a chair and started clipping away. We chatted the best we could, and finally, towards the end of the cut, the stylist said, "Freeench?"  Why would she think I was French? I had already told her I was American.  Again she asked, "Freeench?" I gave up, and just smiled and nodded, when - WHACK!

I learned later that"frangia"(which sounded to me like Freeench) is the word for "bangs." The honest Italian woman explained that my fabulous scar had progressed to look more like a wrinkle and did me a favor by once again covering it with a face full of bangs.

I traveled around the world and ended up with the same haircut I had when I was five years old.

Michelle Obama and I could have both saved money and time by standing out on the back porch and letting my Mom put Scotch tape across our foreheads.

Leslie Anne Harrison is a contributor to the Fairhope Supply Co. blog at fairhopesupply.com and also for the Southern Coterie web site.