I suppose blonds have been preferred for far longer than I have been alive, but that does not mean it stings any less. For as long as I can remember, I have attempted to catch the attention of the opposite sex. A few barriers held me back: my small, slightly stubby stature, my tendencies to dress as a forty-year-old lesbian, and perhaps the most important setback, my brunette hair.
The thing is, my family, doesn’t experiment with hair color – or any modifications for that matter. We just don’t. After all the lectures my mom got as a kid from her mother, there is no way our family can move away from the generational repression of self-expression through body modification. My mom said my grandmother would tell her, “Oh, why would you want to change one of your god-given features?” any time she asked if she could dye her hair or get a piercing.
“I couldn’t get my ears pierced until I was a sophomore in high school.” my mom told me when I asked to get mine done in the 6th grade. “How about we wait until you can drive?”
“In what world does getting your ears pierced have the same responsible weight as driving a car?” I asked, to which my mom replied, “The world God built.”
The only exception to my family’s standard is my Aunt Jojo, who came out of the womb platinum blond with a tramp stamp, but she is my dad’s sister, so that hardly counts. But for the rest of my family, no tattoos, nose jobs, butt lifts, or anything. We could be a beautiful yet intimidating family of five, effortlessly cool, yet kind and gentile. A family composed of influencers and indie musicians that the neighborhood invites to dinner parties and auctions. Respected and adored. But no. Our potential sits like an untouched urn at an estate sale: cold, unused, and probably haunted.
Everyone will hit a point in life where they decide they are done being insecure and sad about it. For me, the straw that broke the camel’s hump was when Wally B stood me up for formal after telling me, “I mean, like yeah, maybe, I’ll probably be studying for finals.” after I asked him to formal last semester.
“Finals are three weeks after formal.” I pointed out.
“I have hard tests.”
Apparently not hard enough because the night of the formal, as I was getting ready, my friend Payton sent me a “you should see this text.” followed by a picture of Wally B at a house party, cozied up with Jessica, a girl Payton and I knew from Math 101. She was most definitely, without a doubt, 100% blond. Not natural of course, but blond, and skinny, and pretty. Damn it.
“This is from tonight?” I texted back as fast as I could.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, girl. I thought you should know” Payton texted back. I threw my phone on my bed, got undressed, and opened the freezer, looking for ice cream, or something to take the edge off. Then the image of Jessica popped back into my head and I thought differently.
After that night, enough was enough, I decided to take action. First I thought to myself, how come I can’t seem to be confident enough to do what I want? Then it hit me. I knew who I needed to imitate. I remember there was this one kid who went to my high school that everyone hated, but he always got what he wanted because he acted like he was the best. Sure he was rich, and he had a weirdly symmetrical face, but he had a LOT of confidence and it always tricked everyone into forgetting what a terrible person he was. I mean, he made a list of girls in our school and ranked them on attractiveness, that level of a bad person. But he was still the life of every party. In fact, he got just about anything he wanted because they did one thing I could never do; take it.
“Please tell me you are joking,” my parents told me after I presented my foolproof plan to play the game of university social hierarchy.
“We don’t want you to change or get caught up in trying to fit in.” But they didn’t get it, and they never would. My parents were set. They already built their dream life. Married young, double income finances, and three intelligent young children. a firstborn son on his way to being a doctor, the youngest son who could probably play professional golf, and me, funny but soon to be so much more, maybe even hot. I had my goals, but they just didn’t see the value in them. In order to marry a lawyer and have athletic, flawless children with 130 IQs, I had to start now. But still, I knew what stood in my way: my shiny, naturally highlighted, flowing yet boring brown hair.
There were a few ways I could make up for this deficiency I was born with, without compromising my family values, or more so, pissing off my mom. I only had a few months before my Junior year of college to prepare, I had to act fast. I took a long look at myself and forced myself to point out my flaws from an outside perspective. An attempt to see myself in the eyes of high society, college society. I wrote a list, similar to the way a seamstress writes down measurements. I am a little short, noted, can’t be fixed. A little stubby, fix-ishable, but would take some work. A little boyish, nothing to be ashamed of, but definitely wasn’t winning me any brownie points over blondie.
I tilted my head to get a better look, like they do in 2000s movie montages as if looking curiously at yourself will change your perspective. I was working with a low budget and an even smaller crew which included myself and my three most prominent alter egos. That didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter, not if I was going to take my throne amongst the obnoxious blonds of my school. It would take work, but I could do it. I could be ready come late August.
Naturally, I started with the place that needed the most work: my face. Not to say I have never worn make-up, but I sure as hell never put anything on my face that warranted a “you look fussy” from my mother. One time, on the eve of a high school dance, I came downstairs in the same fashion princesses do in those movies where they float downstairs and meet their handsome man, who is awe-struck by their ridiculously pretty date, who is somehow is totally oblivious to how pretty they are. Except in this moment, my mom was waiting downstairs, and rather than a “wow, you look… beautiful.”
I got a “Did you put on make-up?” to which I replied, “Yes, mom, I put on make-up.” Only for her to say, “Do you think you should put on a little more?”
So you can imagine my distaste for my naturally round face, speckled with acne and discoloration from years of bored picking. You can also imagine my craving to invest in make-up that looked, well, like make-up.
I scavenged my local makeup store, picking out items noting exactly what I wanted. I took my little brother along because not only would be an honest observant, but I know he also likes to smell all the colognes.
“Does this look okay? This shade, or is it too dark or too light?” I asked as I faced him, four different shades of foundation displayed on my face.
“I still don’t think you need makeup. You look fine.” he said, annoyed. “We’ve been here for 30 minutes.”
“Fine isn’t good enough. I need to be flawless.” I said with jazz hands.
“Flawless, yes, you are flawless,” he said, imitating my jazz hands. “Can we go now?”
“Yes, we can go. I think I know what I will buy.” I put the products back and wiped my face with the little tissues.
“Wait, you aren’t getting anything?”
“No,” I said, turning towards the exit.
“We were here forever, and we are leaving without anything.”
“I don’t have any money right now. This was just research.” he gave me a look of pure annoyance.
“We can get ice cream on our way home,” I said, ushering him out the door.
“I thought you just said you didn’t have any money.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There is always money for ice cream.” He smiled back after that comment.
The only issue was that, as a new college student, I was broke. My new lifestyle was not cheap. I needed income, something that could sustain my new hobby of being hot. So I did what any normal 19-year-old would do, I worked hard, used my networking skills, texted my uncle, used nepotism, and had a job by the end of the week.
I won’t lie. Waitressing was not what I thought it would be, especially when I thought I applied to be a hostess. I proudly finished spelling my middle name correctly on my adult paperwork for my adult job when my boss looked me in the eyes and said, great, “I usually give the servers 3-4 shifts per week.” I gave the most reassuring smile I could, as I did not want him to smell the fear in me. In an effort to let this man know that I, too, understood exactly what I was getting into, I said, “Perfect, I am very good at waiting on people,” as I pointed to my watch, but the look he gave me was not one that beamed confidence.
Over the first couple of weeks, I found I didn’t suck at my job, but I was not the hilarious, charming, perfect server I expected to be off the bat. However, I knew I was gaining ground when people left me tips that weren’t just old buttons and notes that said, “My dog could wait better.” So, a couple of weeks in, I felt alright. I felt even more accomplished when I got my first check in the mail. A real official, adult check for my hard work and dedication to the restaurant industry. I slit open the crisp envelope to find a slip of paper in my name for four dollars and seventeen cents. I frowned. I finally understood why I walked out of the restaurant each night with what looked like a stripper wad of cash, that’s because my actual paycheck was a capitalistic joke. That’s alright. I kind of liked the loose cash my work brought it, it made for an interesting story each week when I went to deposit it at the Bank on the corner of Utica.
“Oh, yeah, money was good this week. I learned a new move, added an extra spin. Real advanced stuff.” I don’t think the teller knew I was kidding.
Toward the end of the summer, I went back to Sephora and proudly placed my previously selected items on the counter. My little brother abstained from this trip, on the account of “Not wanting to waste his time watching me fuss over useless stuff,” whatever that means. After a couple more weeks of work, and a few more suspicious deposits at the bank, I finally had access to step two – clothes. Not just any clothes, the clothes I needed to perfect my look, the ones that said, “Look at me, I’m nonchalant but in an influencer way.” The outfits that would send me to the top of the hierarchy, next to the sorority girls that actually got guys’ numbers at parties, rather than a surprise wrap around the waste from a girl you thought was being friendly. So, I spent my final weeks of summer shopping and composing my wardrobe. Vuori and Lulu athleisure, cute shorts that fit my now smaller butt after spending the summer snuffing the weight I packed on for the winter. The layer that said, I used to play sports but now I prefer the company of a book and a box of Oreos over my physical health. I picked up running, more like jogging, which was closer to fast walking. The point is I made an effort to get outside. I can say part of my weight loss was due to rediscovering my love for tennis. I started playing with my little brother. Exercise and healthy competition.
“What the FUCK was that? That was in,” I screamed over the net.
“NO, it wasn’t.” yelled my little brother right back.
“I think I know what I’m talking about, I played in college,” I screamed.
“You had a tennis class in college.” my little brother pointed out.
“Same thing.”
“Is not.”
I stepped off to the side to grab some water. I smoothed out my slicked-back bun, previously held by gel but now by sweat, checking it with my phone camera. My little brother came over to me and grabbed his water.
“God, you are obsessed with yourself,” he said as he poured some of his water on my head, which ran down my face.
“STOP! Why would you do that, see what you did?” I yelled at him.
“Chill, it was just a little water.”
“Ugh, you messed up my hair and now my mascara is running.” I said while trying to fix it with my camera.
“Why are you even wearing makeup? We are playing tennis… in 90-degree heat,” he said while I just rolled my eyes. Did he always use to be this annoying?
We had our moments, but I think the exercise was good for my brain and my tan. More importantly I was shaping up nicely – literally.
I continued to work on my wardrobe. I turned old T-shirts into 80s-style carefree, shoulder-showing masterpieces.
“Oh wow, if that isn’t a flash from the past,” said my mom with a wide-eyed expression as I did a mini strut-pose-twirl in the kitchen to show off my new, reinvented look.
“It’s back in style, plus it’s cute.”
“It’s something alright.”
“Can’t you be supportive?”
“Not when you wear that,” she said. “And those shoes. Seriously, it looks like we don’t take care of you.” I won’t lie. That was not the response I wanted, but the one I needed. I peered down at my feet to find my beaten-up white Nike’s soiled from years of wear and tear. Half of the soul was gone, nearly leaving my toes exposed to the floor. I was embarrassed that I hadn’t thought of shoes yet. Of course, that was so dumb of me. Girls that are put together do not wear dirty shoes with holes, they wear shoes that are stylistically worn down. Shoes are like ripped jeans, they are only cool if you bought them ripped, not if you snagged them hopping the neighbor’s fence at two am after running from their dog.
Through this interaction, my mom confirmed my fear. I needed to go deeper, commit further. I needed people to be convinced that this was the new me – the right me. So I found my laptop, picked out two new pairs of shoes, and clicked “order.” It was about time my feet were in the game, too.
I even went as far as buying a pair of Birkenstocks even after I swore off of them ever since I stepped on the heel when I was running as a child, screaming, “Who designed these dumb, painful sandals?”
When my shoes came in the mail a week later, I tried on one of my favorite new outfits and looked in the mirror. I did a spin and found I looked like every other girl at my school. I tried on my new backpack, the replacement for my beaten-up, faded green and brown Burton backpack I begged my grandparents for in the seventh grade. The one that was far too big for me. I loved that old hag of a bag, but it never did me any good. A tough realization, but an important one. The image looking back at me in my bedroom floor-length mirror was shiny and new. I felt powerful.
The summer was coming to a close, and I noticed I started getting compliments around town, which was a sure sign that I was coming into my new persona nicely. I was finally getting the recognition I deserved. I was collecting confidence like 8-year-olds hunt for Easter eggs, frantically, as if I didn’t get enough, I would have nothing to show for, no bragging rights to the other, chocolate-thirsty kids.
“But we always compliment you, and you never like it.” My dad said, taking a bite of spaghetti at dinner one night.
“Yeah, but you’re my dad,” I said as I dumped parmesan on my small Caesar salad.
“So? Can’t we compliment you?” asked my mom as I finished sipping my Diet Coke.
“If anyone would lie to you about how you look, it’s your family.” I checked my reflection in my fork, trying to make out my face despite the distortion from the prongs.
“We don’t lie to you.” My mom reiterated.
“Liar,” I called back while my older brother ate his third buttered roll.
“Would you quit it already? Why wouldn’t you believe us when we call you beautiful?” My mom looked at me with the disappointment and frustration someone would give their child if they told them they wanted to live in a van down by the river. I didn’t want to live in a van down by a river or make my mom sad, but those were the hard realities in life that people must deal with.
“How did we get on this topic anyway?” I asked, trying to get out of the conversation.
“You brought it up,
“You just don’t get it. I need the people at my school to think I’m pretty, more specifically, the boys I like,” I said, picking at my pile of cheese with a little bit of lettuce underneath.”
“No…I think I get it.” said my dad as he eyed my cheese mountain.
“See, thank you, Dad, at least someone appreciates my vision,” I said, as I struggled to get any food on my fork despite my aggressive stabbing.
“Oh no, that’s not what I meant. I think you’re crazy.”
“Why do you mean?” I said as my parents and brothers nervously eyed my cheese, Mt. Everest, then met my probably intense gaze. My younger brother was the first to break the silence, “We just want you back.”
“What do you mean? I’m right here.” I said, confused.
“That’s not what I mean,” he said quietly. “You’re mean now.”
“What? No, I’m not!”
“Last Friday, you told me ‘if you leave the house like that, people will think you were lost in the woods for a week.” I started to defend myself, but my older brother cut in, “Remember on Monday when I showed you the mustache I was trying to grow out you said it looked like a rat died on my face.”
“Okay, but-” I started but my mom cut me off.
“You told me my sweater made me look ten years older,” she said while looking down at her water glass. I looked at my dad. He frowned and said, “You said my jokes were bad.”
“Okay, you can’t fault me for that one.” I looked at all of them and saw their hurt expression. “Okay, come on, I was just messing around. Don’t be such babies.”
After that comment, dinner was a little quiet.
I couldn’t help my mind as it trailed off while I worked my way through the cheese on my plate. If I failed I might just end up living in a van down by the river after all. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t let go of the life I wanted. One where my lawyer husband cooks dinner for our brilliant, athletic, beautiful kids and myself while we sip champagne while we blissfully stare at the ocean from the beachfront view of our third-family bungalow. It was so close I could taste it.
The night before I left for school, my father caught me making myself a bowl of cereal in the kitchen at two in the morning. I was sitting criss cross on the counter, drizzling sugar free chocolate syrup on the top of my coco puffs. When he found me he sleepily hopped up on the counter and sat with me. We sat there for a moment before he said, “You know, when I met your mother, I was dating some girl at school named Chery.” He paused and looked at me, I was mid bite. He continued, “She was on the cheer team, she was fairly popular, pretty and yes, she was blond.”
He had my attention.
“And you know what?” he asked. The night cicadas clicked in the distance and the dark kitchen made him appear older.
“What?” I said, “she dumped you?”
“No. No.” he said, shaking his head. “I broke up with her, because I met this girl. She was funny and kind and brunette, and I knew that I couldn’t be with someone like Chery, when I was looking at that girl, the girl who eventually became your mother.”
“Oh.” I said, taking another bite of my cereal. He smiled at me and patted my shoulder.
“The people who are meant to be in your life will be, don’t forget that.” Then he got down off the counter and started out of the kitchen. “You have a big day tomorrow, get some sleep, and try not to loose sight of things this school year.”
“I know, I know. My academics come first.”
“I meant yourself. Goodnight, hun.” Then he disappeared in our dark house and I was left with my cereal, the chirping cicadas and myself.
***
The first day of school rolled around, and it was time to prove myself. It was time to see what this new smoke show could do. Take it out for a joy ride. I started strong with cute white shorts that I only kept in my closet for safekeeping. My makeup was done in a way that said, I have done this at least three times before. My hair was curled to borderline Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader level volume. And, of course, I was sporting my brand new, shiny leather Birkenstocks. I exuded the poster adult for charm and approachability. I had the confidence to wink at people I’d never met. Fist bump a frat dude. Stand up straight without doing something weird with my hands. I was unstoppable.
I made it to my first class and sat in the front because even though I decided to look basic, academic validation took priority over just about everything else. Plus, the front row was the prime spot for my quippy remarks to be heard by the teacher. I did a scan of the room before taking my seat, and there he was — a beautiful, sandy-blond, slightly above-average guy in both height and attractiveness. I turned back to the front of the class, smiling. I was confident he would notice me, and I could play the oblivious cute girl who didn’t notice him. I spent the rest of class making up dumb scenarios of how we would chat after class, and I would get his number, and he would beg to do homework with me. So when class ended, and I smugly put my notebook in my new backpack, it was an understatement to say I was shocked when I looked at him, only to find him staring at something else – someone else. I followed his eyes to see where he was looking, and that was it. I lost. I lost to a blond. She was across the room in her mediocre outfit, basic white shoes, and a boring black backpack, with an okay makeup job and no thought behind those eyes. Again, I saw that image of Jessica with Wally B at that party. So what? It didn’t matter what I did or who I acted like. I was brunette, and that was that. Sure, she might have a personality and probably actually enjoyed the Jane Austin book I saw her reading at the start of class, and she probably actually had a niche, cool, off-the-wall interest that made her unique and interesting to be around. Still, I know that wasn’t the deciding factor. The man who I knew for fifty minutes, whom I had no emotional interest in whatsoever, chose a skinny blond over me. I could basically see my future walk away, gazing at the flowing curls of another bitch as class was dismissed and I was left alone.
I collected my things and sulked out of class. I keept my eyes on the ground, defeated and lost. I walked down the stairs of the english building, opening the door to the outside, not bothering to look up at the people passing by, not bothering to engage in the world. As I held the door open for the person behind me, I heard a sweet voice, “I love your hair by the way, is it natural?” Confused and alarmed I awkwardly looked at the figure behind me to see who she was talking to. She was looking at me, she was speaking to me.
“Oh, umm yeah, it is.” I mumbled, flustered. The girl behind me smiled, “I have to pay for highlights like that, it looks great.”
“Oh, thank you!” I called after her as she strode off. Her soft blond curls trailing behind her.