It really is true. Blondes have more fun. Or put another way, blondes have more skanky-ass Neaderthals hitting on them.
The pink is gone. Did it myself. I feel bad about not going to Hairdresser Jeff, but he charges a lot more than the $6 it cost me to go blonde at home. The guilt’s really eating at me, because I’m not planning on going back to H.D. Jeff for a while.
Don’t worry, I’m not cheating on him. I’m an ethical woman. It’s just that I’m growing my hair out.
Normally when I go blond, I get universal praise. To be sure, there’ve been some nice comments, including “Ah! Marilyn!” and “You kind of look like Mae West.” But I’ve been hearing a lot of “What the hell happened to the pink?”
It’s been well received by the drooling, chest-thumping males in the population, though. With the blonde hair, men are more likely to get the door for me, more likely to make eye contact, and more likely to ogle.
“Well hello there,” said a guy in the grocery store. I was picking out lettuce.
What, pray tell, what about produce selection invites solicitations?
Naturally, I went home and slept with him. I was seduced by the sexy pickup line. Couldn’t help myself.
(I am kidding, just want to be clear. Kidding.)
If having a different hair color—a natural hair color, for crying out loud—makes such a remarkable change, what does having a different color skin do? Discuss.
Not sure if the blonde had anything to do with the conversation that happened yesterday, but it’s too good not to relate:
I was just leaving the library. I’d taken off my name tag and was muttering my mantra: “Iwanttogohome Iwanttogohome Iwannttogohome.” I looked like your ordinary civilian.
This woman, whom I completely did not recognize, caught my eye.
“Hello!” she said. You could hear the exclamation point.
“Hello!” I said.
“You must be an artist!” she said.
“No!” The exclamation points were contagious.
“Oh. Then you must be a student?!”
“But surely you are a free spirit?”
Grasping at straws, aren’t we, lady…
“Um… sure! Sure I’m a free spirit!”
“And I can see that you have a good heart!”
“Thanks,” I said, “but aren’t you judging a bit based on appearances?”
“Oh, no,” she explained. “I can see it in your aura.”
As I have never seen an aura in my life, I couldn’t really argue with her, but I have to wonder if her psychic skill is trustworthy. She bombed on the Artist and Student points.
Also yesterday, I learned that my favorite sales rep is leaving his Virginia customers. This blows.
First, understand that a huge part of my job involves working with database sales reps. Their job is to call me and sell me stuff. My job is to deflect them. This is not too difficult, because I am lukewarm toward most of them. I actively dislike the ones who use slimey tactics and smarmy attitudes to get my dollars. They are the used car salespeople of the library world.
But my EBSCO rep is a really nice guy. He never pressured me to look at databases if I didn’t want to. Half the time we talked about NoveList, which under no circumstances could he have possibly sold to me, because the library already subscribes. We just talked about it because it was fun. We also talked about the vacation he took with his wife and stuff like that.
So that’s distressing.
Also distressing is the new yoga schedule.
Astute readers will have noted that I take yoga, because I mention it every other paragraph or so. I am subtle like that.
I’ve been enjoying unlimited yoga classes for the summer, but with August closing, we’re moving into the fall schedule.
There is only one class that fits my schedule, Level II/III. Bear in mind that Level III is for the most advanced students.
Remember that I’ve only been taking yoga since January. I’m no longer a shiny green beginner, but I’m not what you’d call a master yogi. I’m an advanced beginner/early Level I student–very bendy, but without the stamina and muscular strength of the people in Level II and level III.
Disregarding for the moment my fear of death by yoga, I ought to be looking forward to the classes: I have recently realized that yoga is sexy.
I know, I know. It took me since January to puzzle this out. I am not very quick on the sexual uptake. Probably this is because my libido is comparable to that of a ninety year old nun. A ninety year old hermit nun who lives alone on a mountaintop and tends goats.
But it occurred to me in class the other night that yoga poses are really quite erotic. Why’d it take so long? Even a mountaintop nun could pick out the potential sin in the yoga studio.
I think it’s because I went off birth control. I finally conceded that I’m not fooling anybody and decided to save myself the money I spent each month on Nuvaring (which, ladies, I strongly recommend as an alternative to the pill). Until I get over my bias against lechers in the produce aisle, sperm and egg are in absolutely no danger of encountering each other these days.
Consequently, my hormones have altered a little bit, and now my libido is up to the level of a mountaintop nun who tends some very randy barnyard animals.
And with that lovely image, I am taking my shaggy blond head to bed. Pictures of the new hairdo will appear once I’ve edited them (read: “altered out ten pounds”) to my liking.