Sena Schmidt
“How many blondes does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
“Why did the blonde cross the road?”
Over the years I’ve heard them all but it still doesn’t cease to amaze me how many people still humor themselves when they approach me with yet another blonde joke (as though I haven’t heard “that one” before) comically insulting my very intelligence.
And yes, regardless of my hair color, I can be intelligent too… at times.
I never asked for this attention. It just seems to go with the territory.
I happen to be one of the few naturally platinum towheads left in this city who doesn’t need to pay somebody to professionally paste tin foil and bleach onto my scalp and if you were to see the rest of my family you’d think we were spawns of Carol Brady.
But I’m not complaining.
Being blonde isn’t just another fingerprint of my originality and an excuse for my occasional mental mishaps, it’s a state of mind; a way of life.
With all of my friends I’m known as “the blonde” and it’s not just because of the color of my hair but because of my intermittent ditziness.
I’m actually quite smart, you see. It’s just that over the years I have found it quite refreshing being able to do something completely stupid and have someone just glance and my blonde hair, smile at me in pity and simply understand.
I never need to explain myself very often. My hair color generally speaks for itself.
I must admit, however, that once in a not-so-stable mindset I deviated from my natural hue and (sigh) became a brunette.
Suddenly, I was no longer the ditzy blonde all my friends knew and loved, but a ditzy brunette which just isn’t socially acceptable.
The brainless moments that were once so typical of the blonde me became my nightmarish reality stuck in the shade “espresso”.
I mean, my stupidity was tolerable before but all of a sudden people’s expectations of me were much greater than when I was a blonde.
Suddenly I was suppose to be this scholarly woman with profound thoughts and philosophically deep ideas about the world but to be perfectly honest, the blonde hidden beneath just wanted to be dumb again.
After a few weeks of being the inadequately idiotic brunette I frantically headed to a nearby stylist and paid them a pretty paycheck to paste tin foil and bleach onto my scalp.
The transformation was fun, but being blonde is just what I am used to… and now my friends have someone to laugh at again.
When people use the aphorism “God, what a blonde,” I suppose it’s being used as a negative implication, but I don’t find it offensive at all.
For me it’s my motto. It’s who I am.
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