Coloring my world

This story first appeared in the February 3, 2011, issue of The Trussville Tribune…

Wow, who knew? All these years I thought I was a brunette, and come to find out, I’m a blonde. At least that’s what the hair color people say, and they ought to know.

One evening last week, I washed some of the gray highlights out of my hair with the contents of a bottle labeled “Dark Blonde.” I was pleased with the result and later commented to Jimmie that the color came as close to my natural color as I’d ever been able to find.

“The funny thing is,” I said, “I’ve never considered my natural color to be anywhere near blonde.”

“Huh,” he said, giving my refurbished tresses barely a glance before turning his attention back to the TV. He’s evidently so accustomed to the color of my hair changing from time to time that yet another shade is barely worth noting.

I once longed to be a blonde bombshell but never had enough nerve to go the bleaching route. I frankly doubted light-colored hair would do much for my complexion, plus I feared winding up with a head full of over-processed straw.

There was that one summer, though – I must have been sixteen or so – when I spent a lot of time poolside with friends Sonja and Melanie at Sonja’s daddy’s country club. Between the chlorine in the pool and spritzes of lemon juice on our hair, we were summer blondes as long as the season lasted. And I think the lighter color probably suited me just fine. But then, all those hours in the sun guaranteed I had enough of a tan to carry it off.

I again experimented with a somewhat lighter color the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college. Mama and Daddy left my younger brother and me home alone one weekend while they went on a trip with Daddy’s boss and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Martin. Craving some excitement but low on funds, I ran to the drugstore and plopped down my last few bucks for a bottle of hair color labeled “Golden Halo,” or something like that.

The writing on the box promised the magic formula inside would render my hair a shiny brown with golden highlights and body to spare. Furthermore, my hair would be thicker, more manageable and infinitely attractive to every handsome and well-to-do college-age male for miles around. Okay, so maybe I read a little more into the advertising copy than was actually there…

In reality, the stuff turned my hair a horrible brassy red, and I had no sooner finished drying it when Mr. Martin’s Cadillac turned into the driveway. The parents were home, and there I was, looking for all the world like an Irish Setter on a bad hair day.

Worse, I had never met Mrs. Martin before, and her first impression of me was bound to be less than favorable. But I figured I might as well get it over with. So I bravely stepped outside to help Mama and Daddy with their bags.

The look on my parents’ faces was priceless.

“Your daughter is lovely,” Mrs. Martin sweetly gushed to my mother, trying really hard to sound sincere. “But where did she get that red hair?”

“I’m guessing from a bottle,” Mama deadpanned, giving me the maternal evil eye.

“Oh…” Mrs. Martin giggled nervously, sensing she’d stuck her foot in the middle of what was about to become a family issue. She hastily retreated to the car and urged her husband to do likewise.

My current hairstylist, Cindy, recently advised me that any hair color with “golden” in its name would turn brown hair red. No kidding. Too bad somebody didn’t share that little tidbit with me thirty-five years ago. It might have saved me some trouble.

But now learning that I’m actually a blonde, and that I apparently have been all along, gives me a whole new perspective on life. Remember the old commercial that posed the question, “Is it true blondes have more fun?” Well, I intend to find out. And if that’s indeed the case, I’ll be spending the next few years catching up on all those good times I’ve been missing.