Eat the Rich, but watch out for the bleach
I'm going to make an odd foray into the topic of hair color, which I suppose is the sort of subject that you might find better served on "Sex and the City," in chick lit, or one of the 4829048 blogs out there with proprietresses who emulate the chic New York City-dwelling, cosmo-sipping, pointy-shoe-wearing, indiscriminate-schtupping-of-investment-bankers-under-the-guise-of-female-empowerment lifestyle.
A casual observer who's never actually met me might mistake my life for something sort of like that. After all, I work in publishing, I live in New York, I'm female, I'm approaching my late twenties, and I'm not married. Oh yeah, and I'm blonde, which I didn't realize was such a hallmark of the sophisticated New York woman until the Gray Lady released their expose of blonde ladies on Sunday.
So why do I have blonde hair? Ironically, it's because I can no longer be bothered to dye it. While it was all kinds of crazy colors when I was in college, and it was a lovely shade of B-52s red for about a month last year, the color I have now is completely, totally, 100% natural. Well, okay, 99% natural - I had highlights done in December, when I was in Montana for Christmas and my mom's friend did them for about $40, though I'm pretty sure those are mostly gone now. Other than that, what grows on my head is what God intended to grow there - an effect which, apparently, goes for hundreds of dollars here in the city. So I guess according to the Times, I'm a (lower-case) blonde, though they don't address the nomenclature for those of us who are blonde by default, and not by high-priced salon OR Natural Instincts.
Honestly, though, this glorification of hair color as hallmark of lifestyle is enough to make me want to shave my head. I would rather be published in McSweeney's than appear in New York Social Diary. My idea of a good date is settling in to watch a new Lost with takeout from Ottomanelli's. (Nobu Matsuhisa and Amy Sacco are not consulted.) My dream job would involve helping people, rather than making them feel inadequate because they aren't spending more money (see: fashion, consumer magazines, art galleries, auction houses). Certainly I would never want to hang out in a social circle, or work for a company, where my hair color was a bigger reason to keep me around than, say, my intelligence or my sense of humor.
I like the fact that my life is far from glamorous. I hope it never IS glamorous. The fact that I have to deal with the New York Blonde and her cadre of wannabes - at my job, in my high school alumni magazine, and ubiquitous in popular culture - is something I consider a necessary evil to be endured as the price I pay for living in New York. Sort of like the crowded subway platforms and the high cost of living and the fact that you have to go to three different grocery stores to get everything on your shopping list.
A casual observer who's never actually met me might mistake my life for something sort of like that. After all, I work in publishing, I live in New York, I'm female, I'm approaching my late twenties, and I'm not married. Oh yeah, and I'm blonde, which I didn't realize was such a hallmark of the sophisticated New York woman until the Gray Lady released their expose of blonde ladies on Sunday.
So why do I have blonde hair? Ironically, it's because I can no longer be bothered to dye it. While it was all kinds of crazy colors when I was in college, and it was a lovely shade of B-52s red for about a month last year, the color I have now is completely, totally, 100% natural. Well, okay, 99% natural - I had highlights done in December, when I was in Montana for Christmas and my mom's friend did them for about $40, though I'm pretty sure those are mostly gone now. Other than that, what grows on my head is what God intended to grow there - an effect which, apparently, goes for hundreds of dollars here in the city. So I guess according to the Times, I'm a (lower-case) blonde, though they don't address the nomenclature for those of us who are blonde by default, and not by high-priced salon OR Natural Instincts.
Honestly, though, this glorification of hair color as hallmark of lifestyle is enough to make me want to shave my head. I would rather be published in McSweeney's than appear in New York Social Diary. My idea of a good date is settling in to watch a new Lost with takeout from Ottomanelli's. (Nobu Matsuhisa and Amy Sacco are not consulted.) My dream job would involve helping people, rather than making them feel inadequate because they aren't spending more money (see: fashion, consumer magazines, art galleries, auction houses). Certainly I would never want to hang out in a social circle, or work for a company, where my hair color was a bigger reason to keep me around than, say, my intelligence or my sense of humor.
I like the fact that my life is far from glamorous. I hope it never IS glamorous. The fact that I have to deal with the New York Blonde and her cadre of wannabes - at my job, in my high school alumni magazine, and ubiquitous in popular culture - is something I consider a necessary evil to be endured as the price I pay for living in New York. Sort of like the crowded subway platforms and the high cost of living and the fact that you have to go to three different grocery stores to get everything on your shopping list.
2 Comments:
But... I thought my hair was the only reason you kept me around!? ;)
Amen to that. I updated by blogroll proper-like and you're in there, of course. Hope you're well. I should see you on Easter.
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