Do Purples Have More Fun?

You know that old saying? Blondes have more fun. Yeah, you know that one. I was actually blonde once. It was 1999. I was suffering from clinical depression due to my father's death, kicking back Zoloft like it was Goobers, and I just decided I needed change. For me, that change came in the form of short, short, platinum blonde hair.

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.

Help?

Hair Apparent

Back in 1995, I was suffering from some pretty nasty low self-esteem. What did I do? I took the advice of my 50-something boss, went to her hair salon, and got my hair completely chopped off. Think 5-inch-long ponytail gone in a second. And I walked out of there a 23-year-old woman with still-present low self-esteem and a 50-something short haircut. It was an unmitigated disaster.

I immediately began to grow my hair back and made it to chin-length until Gwyneth Paltrow's movie Sliding Doors and this cuteasallgetout* hair cut:


It was cute, kicky, and I would dress up my hair with sparkly bobby pins. It was fun! And high-maintenance. Once this hair style was out of my system, I went back to the business of growing and now, eight years later, I've had a pretty decent head-o-hair. But now? With kids? My hair only sees one style: all-day-wet in a clip. So very unattractive and certainly a hindrance in the bucking-up of my mental self-image.

So, I dug deep. I read Miss Britt's post about her new do. And then I saw my cousin's-in-law recent photo with her new short hair. And then I made a stupid, ridiculous bet with the Ty-man. I bet him that if McCain won, I would get bangs and start wearing my hair like Sarah Palin. Why, oh, why did I do that? I'm so damned impulsive. So stupid. Not because I dislike Gov. Palin or her hair, but because I have the biggest damned cowlick on the front of my head and cutting bangs? Would result in me looking like a pre-schooler with a hunk of hair sticking straight up out of my forehead. Knock out my top teeth and the look would be complete.

Rather than keep up with wet hair any longer (or face down the possibility of a daily wet Sarah Palin-do if Sen. McCain hits the big-time), I opted for this:

Please disregard the lack of make-up and the puffy eyes. PULEEZE!

Fun, angular, can still be pulled back, and it feels lighter, sort of the way my life is beginning to feel.

I love it. What say you?

*It's a word. In my universe, at least.

59 Miles to Great Hair

Once every five to six weeks, I make the 118-mile round trip trek to see the hair-miracle man, Wayne. But, I'm not just going for a wash, color, cut, and style, I'm going for the camaraderie, the gossip, the laughs, and the news of Hall county.

Wayne is practically a Gainesville institution when it comes to hair. He has so many long-time, loyal customers who have followed him there that he really has no way of seeing new heads of hair. You have to make your appointment six weeks in advance or you're just not going to see him at all. It's like trying to make an appointment with a world-famous neurosurgeon! But, he's worth it. He charges Gainesville prices for stylish Atlanta cuts and colors. He stays updated on all the latest techniques and styles. But, most of all, he's a great listener, comedian, counselor, and psychologist, all rolled into one.

My friend Toni started going to Wayne back in the late-80s, while she was in high school and he was an early-20s just-out-of-cosmetology-school newbie. Toni went through her punk phase while her sister went through a hot pink phase, all enabled by Wayne. Through 20-ish years of cutting hair, Wayne went from stylist to a stylist who listens, observes, and makes you laugh.

Thus it was in 1998, shortly after my father and uncle had passed away, that Toni took me to see Wayne. My hair and my spirit both needed pick-me-ups. Wayne provided both. Through that rough year of tears, depression, and Zoloft, Wayne gave me a fun, kicky short style and a platinum blond color. I'll never forget the expression on his face when my hair turned a bright orange, then baby blue, while going through the bleaching process. He wouldn't let me look for fear I would go nuts, but I trusted him implicitly. The night before my artificial insemination (which ended successfully in our twins) I showed up for color and an infertility bitch-fest with Wayne. He and his wife had been through many pregnancy ups and downs and he understood my frustrations. While he applied color, I vented. While he rinsed, I complained. While he cut, he listened, nodded, and made me laugh. I think that night had as much to do with our success in pregnancy as anything else I, Ty-man, or the doctor did that cycle.

Throughout the past nine years, whether I need a cut, color, or both, I don't tell him what to do, I just tell him to "have fun!" and his fingers and scissors work incredible magic not just on my hair, but on my psyche as well. He listens, commiserates, gossips, and makes you laugh hysterical belly-laughs. He knows all the good Hall-county gossip; he'll never serve on a jury because he cuts the hair of just about every lawyer, prosecutor, sheriff, police officer, and judge (or their spouses) who live and work there. His clients have varied backgrounds with incredible stories to match. And, if he can't help you with your problems, he can prescribe his favorite medication - Crown and Coke, the beverage of choice when life has gone crazy and you need to calm down a bit. Wayne has taken me from brunette, to platinum blond, to light brown, to red, to calico, very short and spiky to my current long.

The year after my father and uncle died, I needed Wayne as much as I needed my psychiatrist and my Zoloft. Since then, I make the 118-mile round trip trek as much for "Wayne-time" as for a hair fix. I get my Hall county gossip fix, my counseling on motherhood (he, too, is a parent of three with twins), his hysterical fatherhood stories that make me snort, and a cut and color to boot. After our Wayne-time, Toni, my mom, and I go out for a bite to eat, exchanging girl gossip. Then, the 90-minute drive home allows me to reflect on the evening. I come home, kiss Ty-man, tell him about the Wayne highlights, and go to bed looking forward to my next counseling session. The drive to Gainesville is worth it and the checks I write don't even begin to cover the "medicine" Wayne provides.

So, if you're ever in Gainesville, look up Wayne and his magic fingers. Hang out in his shop and just listen and watch. You'll see miracles happen every day!