August 2004

Do blonds really have more fun?

By Suzanne Strazza

I was asked that question twice this morning. I’ll get to the answer in a minute – bear with me.

First of all, I have been running into a lot of commentary on my appearance lately. Perhaps it’s because I am now a “radio and print personality.” Does being a public figure mean that everyone can let me know their opinion about my hair, my footwear, my growing derriere?

I guess so. I really don’t mind all that much – I mean, if I were self-conscious, would I have dyed my hair blond? But it does fascinate me that others are so interested.

Now, for those of you who did think I was a natural blond: A. Bless your heart, you haven’t known me for very long, B. I highly recommend OMI hair salon, and C. Now you know that my “Golden Phase” (recently mentioned in the Mancos Times) has nothing to do with age and only with hair color.

So, am I having more fun? Well, let’s take a good look at that.

Yes, it is fun to wake up, stumble into the bathroom and get jolted awake by the unrecognizable face in the mirror.

Yes, it is also fun to be able to avoid people to whom I owe money to, because they don’t recognize me as a blond.

My husband thinks it’s fun – he can indulge his mid-life crisis need to be with someone new – he’s never been with a blond. That only works one way, though - he’s still the same old guy.

In the beginning, I definitely felt a bit sassier. I became young and hip. I bought myself a pair of stiletto-heeled boots. Then I broke my ankle. So much for sassy.

Was being blond in a leg cast any more fun than being a brunette? Doubtful.

The blond jokes are really fun, though, so are all the horrified stares when a friend first lays eyes on my head. Then there’s the friend who asked in the middle of a crowded room “Why in God’s name did you do that?”

I do so enjoy being made fun of.

I know, I know, I asked for it.

Let’s look at some of the other realities of being blond.

No matter what color my hair, I still don’t look like the Baywatch gals in a bikini. I am certainly not getting asked on more dates. I’m not getting asked on any, for that matter – I’m a middle-aged housewife with two kids. I now spend a lot more money on products for my hair to maintain the color. I take extra precautions in the sun so that it doesn’t fade, and I worry about spending too much time in a swimming pool so my mane doesn’t turn green or orange.

I used to cut my own hair and only did so occasionally. I now spend hours in the salon chair every six weeks getting my scalp burned and yanked on so that I don’t have black roots. I also have to have my eyebrows dyed every three weeks so that they match and that burns worse than the head. (And yes, that’s the only other thing I get dyed!)

Earlier this summer, I had to go straight to a wedding and I had about 2 inches of black roots. Having no time to visit the beauty technician, I spent an entire day and a half combing Moab, looking for a home dye to solve my problem – of course finding none. Talk about bad hair days.

At home, you would think that the kids would treat me like the beauty queen that I imagine myself to be, but alas, they don’t. They still yell at me, wipe their snotty noses on me, demand food, and expect me to clean up after them.

As a matter of fact, nothing much has changed at home. Even the novelty has worn off for my husband. I still do his laundry, cook for him and scrub toilets.

Maybe I look more glamorous n my apron and rubber gloves with my blond tresses.

My mailbox is still full of bills, not invitations, my fiends aren’t calling any more frequently. Being flaxen-haired has not made me a better boater or skier. Although I bet I I’d be a bad-ass surfer, instantly. That is, if we had an ocean.

Being paranoid about the “Bimbo” thing, I now find the need to use more four-syllable words. I also spend more time on my appearance, trying to avoid the Jessica Simpson look.

For me, being a blond has been a hell of a lot more work than being a brunette. Perhaps a natural blond has more coping skills, having been this way all of her life. And obviously, she doesn’t have to worry as much about her eyebrows not matching.

If blonds are having more fun, I haven’t seen it. Although I’m too worn out from working at it to notice much of anything.

So, does this mean that I’m going back to brunette? No way. The myth must be based in reality so I’m still holding out hope for the fun to start.

Suzanne Strazza writes from Mancos.