In college, I was firmly committed to the blondness strategy that would come to rule the next decade of my life. Go to the hairdresser, get professional highlights, pay crazy amounts of money. This ritual happened several times a year, whenever my roots became so brown that I couldn’t accept it any longer.When you live in California and you go to the hairdresser as often as I did, you end up looking pretty darned blond. I am not talking Marilyn-Monroe-peroxide-bleach-blond, but at least in the family of Cameron Diaz or Reese Witherspoon.
Then I moved to the East Coast. Suddenly, the hairdressers I went to could not understand the Blondness Language I was speaking.“I want all-over heavy blond highlights. Here, like this photo of Gwyneth Paltrow.”
“So, MOV, you’re saying you want me to weave some darker brown strands throughout to add some dimension and tone down the excessive bleachiness?”This ugly pattern has continued for the past eight years: Find a new hairdresser, make an appointment, beg for blond, walk out with Julia Roberts’ dark blond hair instead of the Charlize Theron tresses I was born to have.
*Sigh.*It happened again today with a new hairdresser. The result is that my roots are no longer gray, but neither am I the blond bombshell I was hoping for. I wait for The Husband to get home from work so I can show him my new highlights. He walks in the door, takes one look at me and says,
“Oh, so I see you cancelled your hair appointment.”Yeah. That is his reaction. I get indignant and show him how there are no more gray hairs on top, but he does not really notice either way.
At night, when I put Short to bed, he leans in to hug me. He studies my face for a minute and then declares,“Mommy, you know what would make you prettier? If your hair was blond.”
Yep. I know.