White blonde. Each short pigtail is puffy, like a dandelion clock ready to float away. A confident sideways grin; a “yeah, try it then” grin. A tiny but fearless imp in a pinafore dress. This is me on my first day of school, aged 4 and a half.
Sandy blonde. The severity of the bob scraping my jaw. An easy, open smile; the smile you have before you become self-conscious in photos. Standing with arms twisted behind my back and legs crossed in pre-teen awkwardness and noticeably not yet wearing a bra. Me aged 12, on a family holiday standing in front of some castle (they all look the same after a while).
Honey blonde. Another fresh bob. Another easy smile but this time the one you have when you’re drunk and lose some control of your face. In a club with one arm around my best friend and another waving up high, not caring what the photo looks like, just being free. Very much wearing a bra this time. Me aged 18, in the early days of university.
White blonde. Why did I have so many bobs? A coquettish smile; a “yeah, I know I am” kind of smile. Now only wearing a bra (a “yeah, I know they’re great” kind of bra). Me aged 30, straight after getting home from the hairdressers after instructing them to recapture my true natural colour; the hair I had aged 4 and a half.
Now, I don’t know, some kind of brown? Thankfully I’ve finally broken free of the tyranny of the bob and have embraced the pixie. However continually cutting your hair shorter and shorter and not re-upping on your bleach means your true colour is soon exposed. So, my true colour is brown now? I’ll admit, it took me by surprise. I have been a blonde since I first grew hair and I expected to be until the circle of life returned it to white upon old age. Sure, I’ve had dark roots but I thought they were just in contrast to the whiteness of my dye-job, not my actual hair. I wouldn’t have minded if it was chocolate or chestnut or auburn; it’s just…brown. It has no further distinction.
And immediately a part of my femininity and sexuality was lost. I hadn’t realised how much of my identity had been tied to being blonde. Even when I dyed my hair various unnatural colours (red, green, once orange in error), there was an inner confidence from being a natural blonde. And a sneering superiority over bottle blondes: “I may be bleaching my hair but I’m an actual blonde, I’m just accentuating”. Being blonde was rare and valuable (not in a Nazi way); it marked you out in a crowd. Most important of all, to me, being blonde was sexy. It was sexy because everyone said it was sexy. You know the stereotypes; the bombshell, the Marilyn, the “dumb blonde”, a Barbie doll. Personally I always felt an affinity with the bombshell: curvy, overtly sexual, looks a bit dumb but is actually whip-smart and has the comebacks to prove it, self-assured. The bombshell is who I wanted to be, the one everyone drooled over. Being blonde was to be desired and revered.
With my hair super-short and genderless, being blonde is a huge part of my femininity. The equation in my mind was blonde = sexy = feminine. That’s the second thing that took me by surprise, as someone who comfortably has no gender and previously considered their hair as part of their dysphoria (hence why it’s shorter and shorter). I, whether consciously or not, use and present my body in a highly feminine way when dating, having sex, or creating thirst-traps. No longer being blonde, I now lack a context to present myself in. Being sexual feels awkward. Part of being a classic bombshell (in popular culture) is to be female-presenting to the extreme and those images are thrust upon you. Consider the character and legacy of Marilyn Monroe (created and manipulated to be marketable, with peroxide as a key ingredient), the ultimate blonde and the ultimate woman.
On the surface, it seems facetious that hair colour, or style, or length, or where it is on your body, is considered a core part of one’s personality and identity, given that it’s so easily changeable. And it is if you’re only regarding it to stereotype or profile a person or group. But your identity is whatever you want it to be; it’s what you craft and mould. You can either present it or not. Your hair is likely to be something you look at everyday, it’s a keystone of your face. It’s likely something you spend time and money on, something you style to be a particular way. Being changeable is an advantage, because it can be altered or replaced or coloured or removed to enhance your identity or change it. And so yes, it can be part of you or who you want to be. Or it can just be hair.
The box of bleach arrived by next day delivery. I’ve dealt with a lot of things, but not being blonde is something I just can’t. It might be manipulated and shallow, but it’s me. It’s my sex and confidence, and I want to still feel that in the abundance I did before. And bottle blondes, there’s no superiority or sneering here; I am you.