i’ve had nothing to compare it to
Once when I was in college, my hairstylist, on a whim, died my hair a deep chocolate brown. When she suggested it, I immediately thought of Michelle Pfeiffer and her starring role in that really awful movie, Married to the Mob.
I know, I know, for dumb, right? But I’d just seen the movie and the only thing that really stood out, other than the terribly inept acting, was Michelle’s charming cap of dark brown hair. It was such a surprisingly theatrical look for the light-eyed, Nordic-fashioned Pfeiffer. I thought it was stunning.
Drama, I thought, was just what I needed. And a change. And why not? I’d been blonde since I was young and I wanted to try something different. When we dried my freshly shampooed hair and checked it out in the salon mirror, we loved it. It was dramatic. The fresh change I needed. I cheerfully paid her and went off to show my best friends.
Who, to a person, hated it. Hated it.
It was bizarre. More than bizarre. Clearly, my friends were repelled by my new darkened tresses. And I heard so many people ask me that same, annoying question, “why?” that it really started to get under my skin. To the point that I actually started to feel less dramatic and more… dull.
At the time, a guy friend of mine explained it to me like this: there’s nothing better than long, blonde hair: It’s the absolute American feminine ideal. So to get rid of it, to hide it under a brunette shade, well, people think you must be crazy. Astounding.
Case in point: Carly, a best friend from college, listened to me complaining that everyone else was complaining about my hair for several minutes before she cocked her head and peered up at me closely. “It looks really good,” she said sincerely. Ah, thanks, Carl. “It’s just… that it was so pretty before.” I rolled my eyes at her and we both started to laugh.
And it was funny. Funny and ridiculous that I offended people by coloring my hair.
But still, I only did it once. I never ventured down that darkened brown path again. I did, finally, cut my hair. Like I wrote about here, I worried that with the loss of length I’d somehow lose my powers, like Samson. It didn’t happen. Chances are, it only happened when I dyed my hair brown because I allowed it to happen. I know that. It was a big change and I didn’t own my appearance the way I do today.
And nowadays, highlights from a stylist in the winter and from the sunny Oregon sun in the summer keep my hair bright, shiny and blonde. And regular Brazilian waxes eliminate any other evidence. Evidence that might indicate the truth: I started going a lot darker sometime after college. Not that you’d ever know. Well. Not that anyone who doesn’t read the blog or know me personally would ever know.
Moving to Oregon this spring my new stylist, debating with me about colors and highlights and the rest of it, thought about my hair color intently for a long moment and then put her hands on my scalp, speaking seriously to my reflection: “You’re a blonde Lisa. You couldn’t be anything else.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Question: Do Blondes Really Have More Fun? Answer: See the Title of this Blog.
I know, I know, for dumb, right? But I’d just seen the movie and the only thing that really stood out, other than the terribly inept acting, was Michelle’s charming cap of dark brown hair. It was such a surprisingly theatrical look for the light-eyed, Nordic-fashioned Pfeiffer. I thought it was stunning.
Drama, I thought, was just what I needed. And a change. And why not? I’d been blonde since I was young and I wanted to try something different. When we dried my freshly shampooed hair and checked it out in the salon mirror, we loved it. It was dramatic. The fresh change I needed. I cheerfully paid her and went off to show my best friends.
Who, to a person, hated it. Hated it.
It was bizarre. More than bizarre. Clearly, my friends were repelled by my new darkened tresses. And I heard so many people ask me that same, annoying question, “why?” that it really started to get under my skin. To the point that I actually started to feel less dramatic and more… dull.
At the time, a guy friend of mine explained it to me like this: there’s nothing better than long, blonde hair: It’s the absolute American feminine ideal. So to get rid of it, to hide it under a brunette shade, well, people think you must be crazy. Astounding.
Case in point: Carly, a best friend from college, listened to me complaining that everyone else was complaining about my hair for several minutes before she cocked her head and peered up at me closely. “It looks really good,” she said sincerely. Ah, thanks, Carl. “It’s just… that it was so pretty before.” I rolled my eyes at her and we both started to laugh.
And it was funny. Funny and ridiculous that I offended people by coloring my hair.
But still, I only did it once. I never ventured down that darkened brown path again. I did, finally, cut my hair. Like I wrote about here, I worried that with the loss of length I’d somehow lose my powers, like Samson. It didn’t happen. Chances are, it only happened when I dyed my hair brown because I allowed it to happen. I know that. It was a big change and I didn’t own my appearance the way I do today.
And nowadays, highlights from a stylist in the winter and from the sunny Oregon sun in the summer keep my hair bright, shiny and blonde. And regular Brazilian waxes eliminate any other evidence. Evidence that might indicate the truth: I started going a lot darker sometime after college. Not that you’d ever know. Well. Not that anyone who doesn’t read the blog or know me personally would ever know.
Moving to Oregon this spring my new stylist, debating with me about colors and highlights and the rest of it, thought about my hair color intently for a long moment and then put her hands on my scalp, speaking seriously to my reflection: “You’re a blonde Lisa. You couldn’t be anything else.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Question: Do Blondes Really Have More Fun? Answer: See the Title of this Blog.
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