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Born blonde

I was a towhead as a child. Bright, almost white, blonde hair. My whole family with the exception of my youngest sister is blonde; I was lucky in the fact I had (still have) the blondest of all the hair. We would traipse about town, four kids and my poor mother, trying to handle all of us; undoubtedly, a woman of my mother’s age would stop and comment “What beautiful blonde children!”
For a period of time, my hair was long, as long as it is now; in class, my friends and I would get chided for playing “beauty parlor”, which would mainly consist of several girls playing with my hair. It was cut shorter when I was in the first grade; my mother and I would have epic fights in the morning as she would attack my head with a comb and I’d howl at the pain of “rats” in the long hair. After almost a year of this; my parents finally decided to cut it short (to my delight) and I excitedly got my first memorable haircut. I remember the hairdresser being aghast at having to cut “such beautiful blonde hair”. I wanted it off; it got in my way. After the haircut, I went home and cut the hair of my (also blonde) Barbie, telling my parents that I wanted her to match.
It stayed towhead for years; until puberty. My father used to joke that he could find me in the dark because of that head of almost platinum hair. Everywhere I went, women would stare. I would be in Longs Drugs and a woman would come up behind me and touch my hair. I’d have hairdressers tell me that everyone wanted my hair. Random people and family friends alike would mention the hair. During this time of my life, I was offered the opportunity to pursue a modeling contract, believe it or not . . . a neighbor of ours had a daughter who was a model, and, we’d go have dinner at their place occasionally; on several of these occasions, the daughter and mother tried to convince my parents that I could be a preteen model. This didn’t go over well with my parents; they politely declined, although I thought it sounded so exciting; to this day I occasionally wonder what I would be like if my parents had consented and I had spent my childhood and teenage life modeling.

Puberty

When I hit about eleven or twelve and the puberty bell tolled; my hair began to change color. It went from towheaded to more of a golden yellow; I began to have streaks in my hair of light blonde on the top and dark blonde on the bottom. This happens to most blondes when they are teenagers; blonde is associated with youth for a major reason, that being that it’s usually children and preteens who are blonde without help. Some women and men are fortunate to maintain the blonde without coloring; usually, this denotes a person who is very, very fair. My scalp also, due to puberty, became quite oily. It still is, unfortunately; no matter how I try to train it to be not so.
During this phase in my life, I hated my hair. It was almost always short and out of my way; I wouldn’t let it past my ears before I demanded a cut. I ceased having women stop me on the street and tell me what a wonderful head of hair I had; I began to abhor being a blonde. It, at this time period, to be honest, was dirty “dishwater” blonde anyway; it had lost its brilliance and style with the onset of puberty and I had lost interest in keeping it maintained. I was riddled with low self-esteem at this time in my life and was trying to handle my ballooning weight, resulting in wearing of giant shirts and ill-fitting pants. I spent most of my first teenage years trying to blend in; blonde hair wasn’t a help in blending in. I wanted to dye it, but it frightened me. My mother had been dying her hair for years, but she was unwilling to allow me to start at such an early age; plus, I was quite unawares of the process. Blonde hair was the last thing on my mind as I grew up, trying to fit in, trying to find my place in the world; I just wanted to survive another day without being taunted or tormented. I just wanted to be “normal” for once; for a little while.

Dyeing for a change

I dyed my hair purple when I was eighteen years old.

Well, it was supposed to be red. I had dyed my hair with one of those semi-permanent dyes that year for the first time; a Clairol Natural Instincts color that washed out in 24 shampoos. I had decided to try out a strawberry blonde; and found I could pull off red well enough. I decided after I graduated to try it again; and I chose a color with the help of my then-best friend from the L’Oreal Hydrience line; a deep burgundy; this line was also a semi-permanent line. I dyed it, and the next morning, I woke up to find that I had purple hair. Well, mostly burgundy hair, with purple streaks at the top due to the lightness of the bleached streaks I usually have at my crown. It turned out later my friend convinced me to dye it so on a lark; however, I uncharacteristically decided it was cool and went with it, waiting for the color to wash out.

Not surprisingly, I was suddenly noticed quite a bit. The good thing was that the color actually worked with my skin tone; so instead of looking like I was pale or washed out, it lent a rosy tone to my already rosy skin. People once again started to stop me in the street to tell me what a great hair color I had. Women would compliment me on being bold enough to color it as I had. I had people who knew me from high school super surprised to see boring old me with purple hair. It was entertaining to watch the reactions; mostly, it was very positive response.
However, as the color bled out, a dull pink color was left in my light hair. It was a color that did wash me out; I look at pictures of me back then and can do nothing but focus on how terrible the hair color looked. I needed to color it to remove the pinkish/blondish/dishwater mishmash that it had become.
I found a nice auburn with enough red tones to match the pink and within what I felt was a good color for my skin; and once again I succeeded. The auburn was a lovely color; however, I realized during this time, that suddenly, I missed being a blonde! I had never missed it before; I had always kind of thought it as a nuisance; the extra attention and adoration for the hair. It’s a hair color, people! I wanted to scream. However, being a brunette, I realized I missed the attention that my growing blonde hair had garnered for me. I was suddenly like every other girl . . . it was a strange feeling. What I had always wanted to be — “to be normal”, I suddenly was; however, it was not who I was. I was and am not “normal”—far from it, to be honest. I made the important realization that my blonde hair had its own place in who I am; it was where I was from; and who I was supposed to be.
Eventually, the color began to fade out; and I managed to guide it back to blonde via the strawberry blonde route. During this time period I happened to be in a considerable amount of shows; and had started to Stage Manage; I had my picture taken with my hair down, which was unusual, for a lobby display of my very first Stage Managed show. When the pictures were put up, everyone commented on my photo—that suddenly, I had “bed hair”, that my hair was “amazing”, and so on. I had let it grow out beyond where I had normally cut it because of the amount of shows I was in at the time; any girl who acts on stage knows that her hair is a commodity to the costumer (“She can have a Pompadour with curls down the back!” meaning two hours of hairdressing); and unfortunately because mine ended up as such for such a period of time, I just allowed it to grow out. People began to ask me—“Why don’t you leave it down? It’s so beautiful!”
This was a brand new thing to me. I had always known I had nice hair; but for a very long time, I had not allowed it to be so. It was a pain; it was embarrassing; it was an evil thing to banish instead of allowing it to flourish. I hadn’t thought of it as “beautiful” for years. As the blonde began to emerge again after a year of many colors, I realized that finally, I had something that was considered “beautiful.” I decided that I would do everything in my power to maintain the color and maintain the notice; that I would use my genetically rewarded gift to my advantage, not against me. During this time in my life, I also began to realize that under the greasy hair, the glasses, the ill-fitting clothes, and the glower was a naturally cute girl just aching to be put on display. I had graduated onto contacts, had been washing the hair daily for years, had learned how to fit clothes to my voluptuous frame; had gotten over the depression that had plagued me for my teenage years and learned even how to smile occasionally. I added the blonde to my canon of attractive assets and began to revel in the hair color; allowing the hair to grow out as much as I could, using products in the hair for the first time ever; figuring out what looked good and what didn’t. The compliments on my hair returned; I started to experience the stopping in the store to comment on my hair color again, the woman sitting behind me on the bus reaching out to touch it. I had finally realized some of the blonde power that I had been hiding for years.

Bountifully Blonde

Still blonde, I spend a pretty penny in upkeep. I’ve kept it long and it remains beautiful; I’m rather vain now about what I used to hate. I use it now as a sign; letting it down when I am out for a night of fun is a signal that reads: I am ready for your attention. Take notice of me; notice my beautiful blonde hair; notice my assets, notice me. When I am attracted to a man, if he is around me long enough, eventually the hair will tumble down; it is maintained to act as a beacon.
And a beacon it does remain. Every man who has ever admitted attraction to me has listed the hair as one of the reasons why. I get stared at openly by men and women alike. I receive what I like to call the “Blonde Envy” stare: it’s usually a woman with either dyed blonde hair or brunette just on the edge of blonde; the sour look on their faces saying to me, “How lucky you are.” If I was not aware of the power of being blonde was before, I am certainly so now. So much is attached to our idea of blondes— quite a bit of it rooted in genetics, as men genetically are attracted to fair haired women as it is a sign of youth and fertility; and quite a bit of it societal . . . we’ve had a fascination of blondes for thousands of years—the Greeks reveled in the blonde, for example. Being blonde isn’t always great, though—the “Dumb Blonde” stereotype is a particularly maddening aspect of being blonde. I have spent years trying to prove to people that just because I have blonde hair does not mean I am dumb! A million dumb blonde jokes are told to me by persons thinking I’m tolerant as I am NOT dumb; I hated them as a teenager, grew tolerant of them in my early adult years and now have begun to dread them, as, well, I’m not dumb, as I said before, and not all blondes are that type. I guess, however, as far as stereotypes go, “dumb blonde” isn’t the worst one out there. And maybe I do actually have more fun?
I wear my hair not only as it is who I was born as, but also as it befits me well; I’m as cynical and rude as one can be, however, I’m also aware that I’ve got what could be considered a “bright” personality. The hair, to me, is something that signifies that I AM different, no matter how much trouble being so brings to me, even if a million women try to copy my hair color and there is a thousand other “blondes” out there in the world (Honestly, I have a tough time calling women who dye their hair blonde “blonde” . . . they didn’t go through years of blondness to be able to handle that term, thank you. Putting a wool sweater on does not make you a sheep.) It is a part of my persona, it is a designee to those around me that there is something distinctive about me, it is a major part, to me, of what I find attractive about myself. Living with this color makes me feel better about myself; it makes me feel beautiful, even, at times. I have no plans to change it in any drastic way other than a nice trim here and there; regardless of every hairdresser who gets their hands on the hair and declares what they could do with such a “beautiful head of hair.” I have chosen to live with the handle “blonde” in my description, it is a part of me just as are my eyes, or my nose, or my leg, and so on. I’ve decided to maintain it until I begin to gray . . . and have decided to allow myself to go completely gray; because, after all, those who are blonde end up with gorgeous gray hair, and to be honest, I’m looking forward to it.

Blonde is a hair color, a description, a personal decision and a lifestyle.
I feel like I can handle all of the above. I’ve only spent my entire life learning that.

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