31 October 2012
I know. You can't believe it. And you're all going to comment Pictures or that shit didn't happen! Too. Damned. Bad. I am not digging through 13 years of pictures to find one, but I can assure you they do exist. Picture me younger, 20 pounds heavier, and WAY blonder. My friend Toni said I looked like a proper German girl. But I wanted to know if it was true. Do blondes have more fun?
Not really. At least, I didn't notice any discernible difference in how I was treated by strangers or friends. I was still the nerdy, small-breasted, BRUNETTE I had always been. A brown-hair in blonde's clothing, so to speak. And, to mangle a Sean Connery-James Bond phrase, The collars and cuffs did NOT match.
From that point on, I decided if I couldn't get a tattoo (tattoo = Ty-man divorce = sad CMG with trashy Chinese characters on her back that probably translate to Fortune Cookie Whore) I would allow Wayne to play with my hair. My typical appointment with Wayne since the Blonde Incident of 1999 has tracked like this:
Wayne: What do you want me to do?
Me: I don't know. I'm bored.
Wayne: How bored?
Me: Wayne-can-have-fun bored.
And I would walk out an auburn chick with blonde streaks, or a brunette with red streaks, or just a plain old HIDE YO GRAY! chestnut.
But this fall was different. With the twins starting first grade and me being introduced to the species of human female known as Towne-Lake-SAHM-Who-Has-Too-Much-Time/Money-and-No-Talent/Life-Who-Wants-To-Run-The-Lives-Of-The-Other-Moms I freaked. out.
Enter Wayne and his magic bottle of purple from stage left.
Exit me, stage right, with the gnarliest hair I've ever had the privilege of wearing.
I could totally take the easy way out and admit that this was me screaming through a year-40 crisis. But it isn't. At 40, I finally feel comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am, what makes me tick, and you know what? I love this bitch. I'm pretty danged cool. No, this purple hair is me, announcing to the outside world that I'm different. I'm not your average room mom. I'm not your average suburbanite. I'm not every other mother you see in the grocery store. This is my inner fireworks coming out to say FECKIN' A! Check this shit out!
Now, to finally answer the question put forth by this post's title: Do Purples Have More Fun? Well, I certainly had more fun with it. I left the house with a spring in my step, knowing what was on top of my head. These purple stripes have been money well-spent and out-cooled that birthday tiara by MILES. What I can tell you is that purple hair certainly gets you noticed. As in just about everyone in the Washington, D.C. and National Harbour area digs your wig. And strange men came up to me, in Kentucky, with the Ty-man standing RIGHT NEXT TO ME, and started up random conversations. All because of the purple hair. The grocery baggers at Kroger think I'm the shiz. But guess what? I'm still the same, meek chestnut none of them would have bothered to know this past summer. Because of these purple streaks, I'm suddenly more interesting. I'm note-worthy. And that's sad. It's sad that it takes an unnatural hair color for someone to get noticed. For others to even care.
Which is why when I return to Wayne in November, I have a decision to make. Do I ditch the purple or do I keep it? I can't decide.