Sunday, 3 March 2013


This is me, un-naturally blonde. It's not a bad way to be . . .

My hero Cher once said: "I've been rich and I've been poor. Rich is better."
Which reminds me of my sentiments about hair colour. Because I've been brunette and I've been blonde. Blonde is more fun.

I conducted a little unintentional research on this theory several years ago, when I wanted to change my natural brunette shade but wasn't sure which hair colour to go with. So I test drove wigs in various colours and styles, and what I learned was that you can go from tepid to traffic-stopping with the flip of a lid. Quite literally.

Growing up, I learned that my natural dark hair got only moderate attention. There were no double-takes, no instant sparks of interest. So when I tried out a sleek red wig with long bangs and long straight hair, the effect was startling. 
Complete strangers made sexual advances. One guy said as I passed him on the sidewalk, "Wow! What does it feel like to be an angel that fell out of heaven?" Another walked by, stared, then turned to blow a kiss. AND HE WAS WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND! 
It was the weirdest thing I've ever experienced. Let me tell you, if you decide to go red, you'd better be able to take the heat.

Next, I tried a blonde wig. And when I say blonde, I mean platinum. Suddenly, I was a bimbo. And also a tart. At least that's how men treated me. I got whistles, I got catcalls, I got winks, I got propositions. Basically I got treated like a stripper. Had I worn the pair of clear heels I actually do own I'm sure I could have made some serious cash.

My favourite blonde story: I went to an awards banquet wearing that hot blonde wig. An older gentleman became drunkenly smitten with me and followed me around the room like he couldn't wait for me to stop moving so he could Velcro himself to my leg. I was aghast. I had no idea who he was but I thought he might be Ezekiel. He was that old. 
Weeks later, I started a new job. I got into an elevator, wearing my natural brunette hair. And who gets in with me but Ezekiel! He looks at me and then looks away. Not a clue, not a flicker of recognition. I passed him many times in the weeks afterward and it soon became obvious he didn't realize that I was in fact the blonde that had almost given him a stroke. To him, I was just some boring brunette. (I've since toned the blonde down a few shades and find life a lot more manageable.)

So, do blondes have more fun? Well, it depends on what you mean by "fun" ... but they sure as hell have more opportunities.

Editor's note: Interesting experiment. I personally believe that during the quality time a man spends with himself, the object of his fantasies is blonde.
My note: Thank you for that information. And now I am going to go dye my hair gorilla black.