This idea came to me from a dust-covered refuge, tucked away in a file labeled, "High School Memories." Along with my high school diploma, I found this gem of an idea written by my longest and closest friend, Whitney. She had written a story for her 12th grade English class, using me as the subject, as the situation was, at the time, a true account of my adolescent hair coloring endeavors. Although, after receiving a humble grade, she tried throwing her version in a fire pit while we went camping one summer. I came to its rescue, however, and upon being a fan of her well-written "blonde" piece, I decided I'd save it for a rainy day. After I found her paper recently in that old file, I decided to re-write it using my own words, yet keeping its original sarcastic undertone, as my best friend is certainly familiar with that trait. So, this blog is a tribute to her, to a nearly decade-old English paper, and to a friendship that's lasted many hair colors. This one's for you, Whit:

“How many blondes does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
“Why did the blonde cross the road?”

Over the years, I’ve heard them all; but it still doesn’t cease to amaze me how many people still humor themselves when they approach me with yet another blonde joke (as though I haven’t heard that one before). And yes, regardless of my hair color, I can be intelligent too…at times.

I never asked for this attention. It just seems to go with the territory.

I happen to be one of the few naturally platinum towheads left in this city who doesn’t need to pay somebody to professionally paste tin foil and bleach onto my scalp. And if you were to see the rest of my family, you’d think we were spawns of Carol Brady.

But I’m not complaining. Being blonde isn’t just another fingerprint of my originality and an excuse for my occasional mental mishaps, it’s a state of mind. A way of life.

With all of my friends, I’m known as “the blonde,” and it’s not just because of the color of my hair but because of my unremitting ditziness.

I’m actually quite smart, you see. It’s just that over the years I have found it quite refreshing to be able to do something completely brainless, and have someone just glance at my blonde hair, smile at me in pity, and simply understand. I never need to explain myself because my hair color generally speaks volumes on its own.

I must admit, however, that once in a not-so-stable mindset, I deviated from my natural hue ,and (sigh) became a brunette.

Suddenly, I was no longer the ditzy blonde all my friends knew and loved, but a ditzy brunette, which just isn’t socially acceptable.

The witless moments that were once so typical of the "blonde me" became my nightmarish reality stuck in the shade, “Espresso.”

I mean, my stupidity was tolerable before but all of a sudden people’s expectations of me were much greater than when I was a blonde. Suddenly, I was supposed to be this scholarly woman with profound thoughts and philosophically deep ideas about the world. But to be perfectly honest, the blonde hidden beneath just wanted to be dumb again.

After a few weeks of being the inadequately idiotic brunette, I frantically headed to a nearby stylist and paid them a pretty paycheck to paste tin foil and bleach onto my scalp.

The transformation was fun, but being blonde is just what I am used to…and now my friends have someone to laugh at again.

When people use the idiom, “God, what a blonde,” I suppose it’s being used as a negative implication, but I don’t find it offensive at all.

Besides, if no one else utilizes the incessant head tilt to the side and vacant “duh” expression, who will? I feel I am the apotheosis of blondehood everywhere, and it is my dutiful calling to represent us with my paramount abilities.

Being blonde in every typecast niche imaginable is my motto. It’s who I am.