At what point does stubbornly being contrarian become shooting one's self in the foot? (Might have saved her a fair bit of grief if she could have figured that out.)

Faults

They came to tell your faults to me,
They named them over one by one;
I laughed aloud when they were done,
I knew them all so well before,—
Oh, they were blind, too blind to see
Your faults had made me love you more.

-Sara Teasdale