Fantasy Hair Makeovers

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Roberta Wigs Out

Q. What did the blonde girl name her pet zebra?

A. Spot.

Okay, I admit it: I had heard the above "dumb blonde" joke and plenty of others, too, over the years. But even so, I was dying to be a blonde; I mean, it's every curly brunette's secret wish to be idolized, objectified, and glorified as only blondes are, right? As soon as the wig was fitted I spent a good 10 minutes swinging my straight, golden locks side to side in the mirror, drinking in my oh-so-obvious new hotness.

I knew that everything was going to change. How could it not?

The first thing that happened was that Juan, the doorman of the apartment house where I've lived for nine years, asked me where I was going as I swanned to the elevator (swanning, of course, because all blondes swan, even when standing still). And he wasn't that nice about it. I stared at him. He stared back. "Don't you recognize me?" I squeaked.

"Oh! You look so...different," Juan said. "Here's your dry cleaning," he added, backing away.

That was my first clue. You could say that my husband's reaction was Juan-esque. Although he knew that I was going blonde, his first sight of me caused him to drop his crossword puzzle, his jaw, and his fork, all at the same time. "My God," he breathed. "You look cold, like one of those type-A, aggressive women." (Friends offered a different sentiment: "You're channeling the Jersey Shore, circa 1971, right?") My apparent new swagger made me feel super-sexy and extra-powerful, followed by a strong urge to change my outfit.

Continued on page 4:  Living the Blonde Life


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