This morning, as I stroked Mike’s hair in bed (sorry for that disturbing image), I noticed one white hair hiding above his ear. I pointed it out. "I’m a blonde!” was his angry response as he squinted at me through bleary, sleep-filled eyes.
I’m unsure if this was to infer that he is a blonde and therefore the white hair must simply have been a blonde hair, or if this was meant to simply deny the presence of anything but golden locks on his head, but it reminded me of a very important principle. A principle you will do well to always keep in mind if you want to make it in this world:
Never question a blonde.
Blondes are one of the most touchy races on earth, like a caught badger, and one must learn the proper care and feeding of blondes if you are to be long for this world. I’m using the term “blonde” lightly here, the same term that millions of “blondes” hold onto with the vice grip of a determined and desperate badger.
You see, there are many blondes living amongst us that you don’t even know about. It was easier in high school and college. Those who proudly boast, “I had white blonde hair when I was a baby,” in the sun-kissed days of high school and youth, still hold on to some of their yellow streaking, allowing them to claim blonditude.
I had a good friend in college who proudly flipped her “blonde” hair over her shoulder, because the tip-top layer still retained the faint yellow of summer church camp. But, honestly, the rest was brown. Just brown. (People have died for less, if you find me dead in bed with a poison dart in my head, you know what happened.) But because she had the obligatory top-layer of faded yellow, she passed.
But once you’re an adult, it gets messy. All semblence of blondtitude is gone, but they hold on mercilessly to the title. I’ve been quite surprised in my adult life to be in the middle of a conversation with a mocha-haired woman, quite clearly a brunette, when she throws out the blonde word, talking about how she loves being blonde and such. I’m always quite taken aback.
It’s called The Blonde Denial.
Women and men whose golden locks faded in the 2nd grade are still desperately clinging on to the label and all the glory it implies. They’ve resorted to various subgenres of blonde to prove their blonditude: dirty blonde, sandy blonde, dishwater blonde. (Is it really better to liken your locks to dishwater than to admit your passage to brunette?)
So the rest of us must tread lightly when dealing with our sensitive brothers and sister, still bereft and dealing with their loss of identity.
Here’s a few pointers:
- Never, ever use the word “brunette” to describe anyone. It’s just too dangerous. And for many constitutes the ultimate insult.
- Slyly ask to see their childhood pictures. No blonde can resist parading out their golden pictures and talking about their golden hair. Once they've revealed their identity, you’ll know to never question the blonde.
- Just call everyone a blonde. If:
b. It’s a former blonde, they’ll agree and you just won yourself a lifelong friend.
c. It’s a brunette, we’ll understand and can laugh together at the absurdity.
Above post is in no way to imply that my royal Dutch husband is anything other than a true, perfect blonde. Just look at that pink skin burning through his pale sunflower strands.
Any offense caused to said True Blonde is completely unintended. You are a paragon of honey-tipped god-hood.
Governmental Warning: The U.S. Government is warning all brunettes to keep their distance from one "Amber Van Schooneveld." She is said to have multiple death threats out on her, and any brunettes known to associate with her will be assumed to be part of her plot to undermine the blondeness of the country.