Day 331

Amnesia. That’s the only real excuse for not posting for over 100 days. It’s actually closer to 200 days, but I’m blonde, so I can pretend that I’m not good at math. However, I was not stricken with amnesia (do people really get amnesia? Or is it just a convenient plot device used in soap operas and David Lynch movies?), I was consumed by work. I was given an option – I took the red pill and ventured down the rabbit hole (The Matrix has been on TNT a lot lately). I could have stayed in LA, had a somewhat easier (I think it was probably more “convenient” than “easy” but I’m not about to nitpick over my diction today) job, but I had an opportunity to have an adventure. What kind of BLONDE would I be if I said no to that?

So I traveled and worked my ass off. And it was wonderful. And terrible. It was an experience that I’m sure I will look back on fondly, but at the moment, I’m just tired. Even typing this right now seems so foreign. I haven’t taken the time to be self-indulgent for so long and it feels strange. I love writing, but this blog seems so self-involved, so self-centered. I’m used to writing for myself, and essentially no one reads this blog, so I suppose I am writing for myself… just in an embarrassing public forum. But just like if a tree falls in the forest… if a writer blogs, and no one is there to read it… did the writer really blog at all? Sometimes I feel that way; I get way too into my head and I overanalyze and criticize and belittle myself. I have things to write, and I’m not writing for you, I’m writing for me – and if you don’t like it, don’t fucking read it. I have a voice for a reason and I’m not about to let any stupid negative thinking get in the way. Sure, this blog may be about my blonde hair, but if that’s all you see than this is not the place for you.

Taking time away from this has been good and bad. I haven’t been writing, and writing is like a muscle – you need to exercise it or it goes into atrophy and withers and dies. So this post may be long and rambling, or it might be meandering and unrestrained. However, being away from my daily cerebral analysis of my mental and physical perceptions has allowed me to change more radically then I think I was allowing before because I was monitoring myself so religiously. Or it enabled me to change drastically because I wasn’t tethered to my daily cognitive assessments. Which came first? The chicken or the egg? How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? The world may never know (although that fucking owl said it was 3, but I don’t trust him).

The truth is that there is no truth. No, I’m not about to get philosophical on you. I can’t even remember if I took a philosophy class in college. Could that be the one where I feel asleep constantly and people talked about Ayn Rand without end? Anyway, my point is if we’re approaching my BLONDE year as a case study, it is severely flawed and I know that. There is no control subject, and I can’t really compare my experiences as a BLONDE during these 12 months to my experiences as a redhead during a different 12-month period. The 12-month periods would have to be the same 12-month periods because I have no power over the external stimuli (life changes, deaths, snowstorms, social situations, etc…). And I can’t be both a BLONDE and a redhead at the same time, and I can’t have someone else be the control subject because they’re not me, so I can completely understand why my BLONDE year as a serious sociological experiment is pretty much inconclusive. All of my data is emotional, subjective drivel, but that doesn’t mean that this foray into social experimentation was a failure. I didn’t do this for science. I didn’t do this to make the world a better place. I did this for purely selfish reasons.

I have come to realize certain inalienable truths that I want to hold on to for myself, and I believe that these are worth their price at the salon:

1. Regardless of my physical appearance, people will judge me and draw their own conclusions about who I am, what my intentions are, and what I am capable of. It is not my responsibility to prove them right or wrong, but I can acknowledge the existence of these prejudices and move on.

2. My life is my own and while some may consider that philosophy selfish, I’m not concerned with their opinions. Ultimately, I am the master of my own destiny and I won’t let someone else dictate my thoughts or actions. This is my bed, and I’m going to have to lay in it, I might as well be the one to make it (that way I can have the good sheets and make sure the fitted sheet is on all the way so the one corner doesn’t pop up in the middle of the night).

3. Taking care of yourself is not selfish. That’s why the flight attendant always tells you to put your oxygen mask on before assisting others. If I lose consciousness, who the hell is going to help them? That is the lesson we’re supposed to learn for the in-flight safety schpeel, right? There is a difference between being selfish, selfless, and self-sacrificing. Martyrs are great, but I get the feeling they didn’t have too many friends. Call my crazy (or ungrateful)… I don’t know…

4. Not every thought needs to be expressed. In a world of facebook, twitter, and whatever the next thing will be, it’s hard to just refrain from letting it all spill out. Freedom of speech and all that, but it’s not all going to be gold.

5. I like to write, but unfortunately I don’t get to do it as often as I’d like. I wish that someday I could make a living from making art and writing stories, but sometimes I just don’t want to share. The moment I let other people read what I write (like this blog, per se), I’m opening myself to criticism and it’s not that I can’t take it, but sometimes I don’t want it. I don’t do these things for other people. I write because I find joy in it. I paint and draw and redo furniture because I love it. I am going to stop using the excuse that I “don’t have time” to do these things, because if they are things that I enjoy, I’m not going to put them off.

6. My grandmother died. She was one of my favorite people in the world. Her love of candy was unparalleled, but when my mom was collecting her things, she found boxes of chocolates, bags of candies, etc. that she was saving. It’s one thing to stash away money for when you retire, or keep a roll of cookie dough in the freezer, but you shouldn’t deny yourself things now and “save them for later.” Don’t save things for later because there may not be a later. Be prudent, not stingy; be merry, not overindulgent.

7. Following your dream isn’t selfish (as long as pursuing your dream doesn’t directly harm someone else – hopefully you don’t dream about mass murder or anything). It’s how you chart your course that can be selfish.

8. I am a feminist in every sense of the word. I believe in equality for everyone – Blondes, brunettes, redheads – as well as every other color of the rainbow. Having spent such a length of time focused on social norms and the fundamentals on which our social constructs are based, I can’t really remain silent anymore. Women are not being treated properly – and not just in America – AROUND THE WORLD. And certainly there are women who refuse to stand up, or fight convention because it’s “too much effort” or whatever. It’s one thing to “not feel like it,” but it’s totally different when your oppressor (or oppressive, patriarchal society) won’t let you fight for your rights. I never thought that blonde hair would lead to becoming a feminist warrior, but it totally did.

9. Take a compliment; say “thank you.”

I think these truths were probably no-brainers in hindsight, but I think they were harder to come by than you might think. You second-guess yourself, you rationalize your fears, and you take steps backward.

Since the beginning of 2012, I had my hair cut and tipped hot pink. My friend E did it and it’s PHENOMENAL. I’m still blonde, but I figured why not have some fun with it, right? Is it different having pink hair? Yes. People look at you, but people also smile at you. I’ve had total strangers tell me how much they love my hair. And as much as I would like for someone compliment me on my brain or my witty t-shirt, I can take a compliment on my appearance and not let it shame me into thinking that I’m a vapid, self-obsessed twat.

Will this blog continue? Yes, but probably not daily. I don’t think I’ll post unless I have something to say. It’s not all gold, but it doesn’t have to be. Because I said so.

Today gets 5 Barbie Warhols:

Day 151

Today, I freaked out because when I woke up in my hotel room, I had forgotten where I was. Hotels are so non-descript it’s kind of obnoxious. I do have a fairly nice room and considering I’m going to be living in it for 3 to 4 months, I guess its great that it has a microwave and a fridge. The windows only open about 2 inches, which is kind of annoying since sometimes I just want some freaking fresh air.

I keep forgetting to put the “do not disturb” sign on my door, so the maid has come everyday so far. I never know how much to tip them and I get a little frustrated when I put things the way I want them and the made comes and moves everything back to the default settings – like the coffee maker is on the left of the counter, not the right. The $3 bottles of water I refuse to drink are put back on the counter. I do like that my bed is magically made and my towels are folded and pretty.

I used to think that living in a hotel was glamorous. I think the important part if this fantasy is living in a LUXURY hotel is glamorous. If you had to live in a Super 8, you might was to die. I’m not saying that this particular hotel is bad, it’s clean and nice and all that jazz, but hotel living is hard. You have a tiny fridge and no oven and your tv automatically resets to channel two when you turn it off and the volume adjusts itself louder, so you’re convinced that some geriatric hobo came over to watch the tube while you were out. There are never enough hangers and there is always a smell that’s either annoying or unpleasant… because you’re not home. That’s part of the problem with hotel living – it’s painfully temporary. You could settle in, get some matching throw pillows, some potpourri, but in the end, you’re leaving so it doesn’t matter.

I especially feel like I’m living in a stranger’s house because when I find blonde hair on the shower… or the sink… or on my pillow… I think, “Who’s been in my room!?” It’s a literal reverse-Goldilocks scenario and it’s a trip.

Today gets 3 Barbie Warhols:

Day 150

Today I was getting my bearings in a new town and it wasn’t impossible, but I did miss my free way exit a few times and had to drive an extra 20 minutes to get where I was going. I’m blaming that on the Blonde. Got to meet people in the office and then pretty much spent the day running around getting things settled. I’m very tired, but it was a productive day.

I enjoy meeting new people most of the time, but now that I’m a blonde, a lot of these people didn’t know me as a redhead. I get to understand how others perceive me as a blonde without knowing my previous identity. With my current relocation for work and my blonde hair, I can’t help but feel like I’ve entered witness protection. Sometimes I wonder if I had entered witness protection, why would I need protection? Would I be one of the guilty witnesses or the innocent ones? More than likely I’d be innocent, but just be in the wrong place at the wrong time because that is my luck. Here’s what I came up with:

In LA, I’m at the office and I’m going over my departmental budget and I’m adding and adding and adding the numbers… I’m looking at the account codings and not recognizing a series of numbers (I’m actually wearing one of those green visors and am running one of those adding machines with the tape). I discover a dummy accounting code that is used to launder money from an illegal circus-themed prostitution ring and I suddenly realize why the corporation makes so many movies about elves/little people. I become an accidental whistleblower and have to make a run for it, but there are hitmen after me and my blonde hair flows in the wind as I sprint down the streets of Los Angeles…

Today gets 4 Barbie Warhols:

Day 149

(Thank god I'm not John McClane)

I’m off to AmericanTown, USA for work and I will confess this to you – I hate flying. It makes my arms tired.

I hate the illogical system that is dictated by class hierarchy. Wouldn’t it make more sense to load the people who have seats in the rear first? Why does first class get to board first? It’s not like they’re going to get there any faster. Everyone is always stalling to put their luggage away and tripping over each other. It’s gross. I think that the worst part is when you have to walk through first class back to your bitch seat in coach. I don’t really give a shit about first class vs. coach because I make it a point to be unconscious for as much of the plane ride as humanly possible. If I could be cryogenically frozen for transport, I would be. I get air sick and claustrophobic and anxious. But, I really do just hate how the first class passengers seem to stare you down as you walk by them, or they make every effort to avoid your gaze. Is this a 1^st-world version of those “feed the children” commercials? Should Sally Struthers (BLONDE!) be on the PA saying, “you, too, could sponsor a passenger of your own… for as little as $426 per flight, a coach-class human in need can be upgraded to first class and have access to hot towels and spacious leg room…. Please press your call button now.”

But on the plus side today… I got hit on by one of my seat mates (sometimes I forget that I’m blonde…) and I didn’t puke once!

Today gets 3 Barbie Warhols:

Day 147

I have the best friends in the history of the world, ever. I had a small gathering of people to send me off into the great unknown as I embark on a new adventure. Essentially, my job is taking me out of town until Christmas. This is both stressful and potentially fun. Hopefully lucrative, but money is a bitch, so whatevs.

My friends sent me off in true debauched fashion – smoke, booze, and broads. We went to a lovely dive bar near my place with a woods-y theme and then headed back to my place for the after party. Ordered a shitload of pizza, I think I put in pajamas and we watched internet videos, talked about life, and then in the wee hours of the morning, they left and I was alone.

After nights like this, when I’m (seemingly) suddenly alone, I get really pensive, but luckily on this occasion, I felt very loved and passed out in my bed for 8 hours.

Today gets 5 Barbie Warhols:

Day 146

BLONDE THINGS THAT ROCK: GWEN STEFANI

Gwen Stefani, lead singer of No Doubt and a solo artist in her own right is a BLONDE who ROCKS. She literally rocks. She sings, she dances, she designs clothes, she’s married to Gavin Rossdale, has a family and still manages to be awesome. How does she do it? I think it must be the power of the BLONDE.

Most recently she’s become a spokesmodel for L’oreal lipstick. I haven’t tried it, but I am likely to in the future. In 6^th grade, I remember singing songs from the “Tragic Kingdom” album in the girl’s bathroom with Maggie Vandersnoot*. Gwen became and icon, especially when thrift store shopping – always wanted to have some fun clothes that I could make funky. I also always wanted to be platinum blonde like here. And now I am.

Does it feel like I thought it would? No, because part of being Gwen Stefani is being the lead singer of No Doubt and I don’t sing. But I’m having a lot of fun despite that fact.

*not her real name

Today gets 4 Barbie Warhols:

Day 145

Survival of the fittest is true. You want to know how I know? Because I survived. There are some days that you swear you don’t know how you made it through. Today was one of those days for me. I can’t actually remember any of the particulars of what made today absolutely impossible, but it was and I can’t believe that I’m finally seeing the other side of it. It’s flabbergasting.

I don’t know if I just think quickly on my feet, or if I just roll with the punches, but I tend to make it through days like this when they come around. It never ceases to amaze me. Being blonde should have nothing to do with this, but more often than not, I have been muddling through even if it takes a toss of the flaxen strands and a giggle. I’m a hussy.

Today gets 2 Barbie Warhols: