The Day the Blonde Died

"Let's just blend the roots this time," I offered to my colorist on Ash Wednesday.

"No," she said. "Let me grab a swatch. I'll be right back," and waddled off. She returned with a palette full of goth blacks with clown red hues, "What do you do for a living?"

I was repulsed by the swatch palette. "I work for a software company; I can't do that. Besides black is not me. It's not me at all." I looked ahead into the mirror to admire the blonde. I've been blonde since I was 18 and the only Georgia Tech student I ever dated dumped me because he only dates blondes, not redheads. I grabbed the bleach bottle just to spite him. He tried coming back after the switch, but the damage was done.

My colorist dropped the scary black swatches and pushed one full of reds towards me. "What about going red?"

"I was a redhead for seven years. I'm over it." I dropped my chin and studied my crown--the natural hair color was much longer than I anticipated. A level three brown, I've learned from years of coloring. It's hard to get hair that dark to blonde, but it's possible.

It's a battle I fight every time I sit in the Aveda chair. They don't want me to be so hard on my hair. I like what comes with being blonde. Having been every color on the hair spectrum, I know that blondes are treated differently. Blonde hair lightens the face and its features, making us appear happier and perkier. Brown is just so... Yankee. Yankees have brown hair and they aren't nearly as easy going as we are.

To shut up my colorist, I grabbed the blonde swatch she was hiding underneath all the others. I pointed to one of the darker ones. "What about that, with highlights?"

"No. I want something for you that will bring out your eyes."

"Er, my eyes are almost black."

"I know, that's why I wanted you to go black!" She grabs the scary black swatches and waves them in front of me again.

"Seriously, I'm not doing that. My skin is too fair."

She waddles back to the station and grabs more palettes. This time she returns with a dark chocolate. I didn't know why she was arguing with me. It's my head and my money. My head was already pounding from Fat Tuesday. The phantom baby made its first appearance and began kicking me, giving me sharp abdominal pains. Honestly, I just wanted to go home and sleep. And the only way to do that was to stop arguing with the Satanic colorist.

"Fine, whatever."

And the blonde in me died.

She pulled the gown off me and already I looked more serious. Less jovial. Less funny. Less.

And the reactions at work? Not good. Everyone wants to know who the new employee is.

It's the less version of me.