Backseat - From Where I Sit

December 2006

By: Michelle

Not Just Another Pretty Face

Note: This is written primarily from a women's perspective but I believe that men can enjoy it just as much by substituting the word "blonde" for "head full of”.

I spent the last 40 some years with blonde hair. The first 20 or so years with real blond locks but after that it was more of a magical blending of nature and the creative talents of whatever was on sale at Wal-Mart or the hair dresser depending upon my budget at the time of need. I had no idea how much this affected my identity until the day I decided that I was going to get honest about the “real me”. Word of caution to men considering losing the comb-over and any women considering this exercise of reality – sometimes its “not nice to ‘un’-mess with mother nature” either.

I started this whole process with a great liberating sense of adventure. To free myself from my past, I had to start by freeing myself from my long-standing relationship with my hairdresser, who had learned to delight me by finding ways to make my hair lighter and lighter at each visit. So I boldly walked into a salon that was previously unknown to me and announced my intentions. Maybe it was the lingering effects of years of bleach but it sounded like a perfectly logical thing to do at the time.

The stylist matched what she thought my roots looked like. She determined that it was a blend between a musky black and deep brown. I was doubtful but what did I know. I hadn’t seen my real hair color in years, so I agreed. As I sat under the dryer, my doubts starting creeping in as black hair started slipping out from under the cap staining my cheekbones. I put on a brave front and consoled myself with brave words, “surely this will all wash out and my natural miracle shade would stun the world.” Myself didn’t believe me. My bold sense of adventure was swirling down the drain along with the masses of black ink that never seemed to end.

I held out hope that my hair would get lighter as it dried. When this didn’t materialize either, I went into panic mode and sought comfort in what I knew best, my blonde hair. So I pleaded for heavy highlights on my freshly minted murky brown locks. The stylist seemed perplexed and paused for a moment. She didn’t know the one thing that I did. The fact that I told no one in my life at all about this little venture and that my son was due to meet me for an appointment within the hour. Even without this tidbit of knowledge she did manage to figure out that she would need to comply if she wanted to survive the day. I think that is part of the survival skills training they give hairdressers.

I ran out of time before she could dry it a second time. In a rush I pulled back my wet strands into a ponytail. The huge blond streaks I demanded had not blended giving me the overall “Bride of Frankenstein” look. My unsuspecting son walked right past me until I called out his name. He stopped, took a few steps backward, he stared at me. The best he could muster was a slight gasp and an “oh mom.” I could tell that Kent had been training him on how to keep his tongue on matters like this. Nothing more was said about the matter. Nothing more needed to be said. I started to feel like I was living the greatest blonde joke ever told.

After the appointment with my son, I headed home. Kent just smiled when I walked in the door. Yep, these guys were trained to know the signs of a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown after a really bad hair mistake. However, the dog had not yet been trained in the art of diplomacy and she proceeded to bark incessantly at the stranger who smelled like mom. All the while my scalp was burning from the volatile mix of chemicals. My first hours as a brunette were leaving a definite impression.

But as they say “time heals all wounds.” Sure, I jumped every time I saw my reflection in the mirror. Yes, I screamed out loud when I saw black hair on my pillow first thing in the morning. But I also noticed something else, the fact that I could go to the grocery store and walk right past people who I knew. I had an opportunity to become someone new. I could re-invent the real me. (If one can re-invent who they are in the first place) Eventually I stopped trying to make a deal with God where I would allow him to give me the worst case of helmet hair ever if he would just make it blonde and accept who I had re-become.

Contrary to all the jokes I have ever heard, losing my blonde hair did not make my grades improve, my conversation wittier or eliminate my procrastination but it didn’t hurt my sense of fun and adventure either. In fact, I plan to spend the rest of my life trying to disprove that “blondes have more fun.” If the first few days were any indication, I think I already know the answer to that question.

Thanks for visiting VirginiaWind.

Travel | Back Seat | Byways | Specials | Letters | Tips | About Us | Privacy | Disclaimer | Search