Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank by Celia Rivenbark Page B
Authors: Celia Rivenbark
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sobered up, that the guy from Taiwan was the rightful winner. There’s a fascinating debate about this, but it’s not nearly so fascinating as watching Bo Brady of
Days
try to decipher signals his kidnapped family is trying to transmit from a mysterious island.
Now
that’s
gold-medal TV.
Vanity Flares
16
This Blonde Isn’t as Dumb as You Think
Online IQ Test Proves I’m a Visionary
(Whatever the Hell That Is)
Probably the last people who are unapologetically joked about and ridiculed in public are blondes. People think we be stupid just because our hair is yeller, and they’re not too shy to say so. Most folks think the average blonde doesn’t know the difference between come ‘ere and sic ‘urn.
If you don’t believe it, consider that there are entire Web sites devoted to collecting and distributing dumb blonde jokes. Which reminds me, how many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb? Two. One to hold the Diet Coke and the other to call “Daaady!” I love that one.
Or this one: What do you call it when a blonde dyes her hair brunette? Artificial intelligence.
Har-dee-har-har.
The stereotype of the dumb blonde is as old as that, uh, really dark stuff that grass and trees and stuff grow in.
I started out blond. Then something strange happened in my thirties, and my hair started getting darker and darker. Call it hormones, call it genetics, call it really bad luck, but I knew immediately that I couldn’t accept not being blond.
A trip to my beloved hairdresser, Brenda (pronounced “Branda” in the South), remedied the problem. It wasn’t painless, my hons. No, far from it. Brenda tied a plastic rain bonnet tight on my head, then used what looked like a crochet hook to pull wisps of formerly blond hair through holes in the cap. I cried and flapped my hands and endured the pain, all in the name of being blond again. Finally, she zapped the wisps with purple goo, and two hours later, I was blonder than ever.
Naturally, I was ecstatic, but as y’all know, a few weeks later, I was
Roots: The Next Generation.
It was horrible realizing that this would have to be an ongoing process. So, for the past fifteen years, I’ve faithfully trotted to Brenda, who now, mercifully, uses little foil strips.
All that said, imagine my shock when Britney Spears, our national spokesmodel for all things blond, decided to go brunette, literally and figuratively returning to her roots. One week, she’s blond as God and Preference by L’Oreal intended and doing things like marrying and divorcing in a day, and the next, she dyes her hair, becomes a brunette, and starts studying Jewish mysticism.
On behalf of blondes everywhere, what up?
Oh, Britney, must we turn to Christina Applegate or—horrors!—Courtney Love as our leader now?
As a blonde in mind, spirit, and bottle, I’m not worried. The ability to do math and chew gum at the same time is highly overrated. Britney’ll be back.
As if losing my blondeness isn’t bad enough, lately something strange has been happening with my eyeballs.
For a year or so now, I’ve gotten lots of snickers from friends who think it’s odd that I read my menu at arm’s length.
“Arms too short?” Heh, heh, heh.
“Isn’t it time you got some reading glasses?”
“The same thing happened to my eyes when I turned fifty.”
Fifty?!
I’m not fifty, although I can sort of make it out as a blurry image in the not-so-distant future. Yes, yes, I realize that “getting older beats the alternative,” but I am a vain creature.
When I recently asked the waiter at a fancy restaurant for a pair of “house reading glasses,” he looked at me with the same disdain as if I had asked for a foam doughnut to sit on.
My friend who is a little younger than me recently had a miniature nervous breakdown after a department store clerk cheerily deducted an extra 15 percent “because today is Senior Day!”
“What does that have to do with me?” my friend asked innocently,
Days
try to decipher signals his kidnapped family is trying to transmit from a mysterious island.
Now
that’s
gold-medal TV.
Vanity Flares
16
This Blonde Isn’t as Dumb as You Think
Online IQ Test Proves I’m a Visionary
(Whatever the Hell That Is)
Probably the last people who are unapologetically joked about and ridiculed in public are blondes. People think we be stupid just because our hair is yeller, and they’re not too shy to say so. Most folks think the average blonde doesn’t know the difference between come ‘ere and sic ‘urn.
If you don’t believe it, consider that there are entire Web sites devoted to collecting and distributing dumb blonde jokes. Which reminds me, how many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb? Two. One to hold the Diet Coke and the other to call “Daaady!” I love that one.
Or this one: What do you call it when a blonde dyes her hair brunette? Artificial intelligence.
Har-dee-har-har.
The stereotype of the dumb blonde is as old as that, uh, really dark stuff that grass and trees and stuff grow in.
I started out blond. Then something strange happened in my thirties, and my hair started getting darker and darker. Call it hormones, call it genetics, call it really bad luck, but I knew immediately that I couldn’t accept not being blond.
A trip to my beloved hairdresser, Brenda (pronounced “Branda” in the South), remedied the problem. It wasn’t painless, my hons. No, far from it. Brenda tied a plastic rain bonnet tight on my head, then used what looked like a crochet hook to pull wisps of formerly blond hair through holes in the cap. I cried and flapped my hands and endured the pain, all in the name of being blond again. Finally, she zapped the wisps with purple goo, and two hours later, I was blonder than ever.
Naturally, I was ecstatic, but as y’all know, a few weeks later, I was
Roots: The Next Generation.
It was horrible realizing that this would have to be an ongoing process. So, for the past fifteen years, I’ve faithfully trotted to Brenda, who now, mercifully, uses little foil strips.
All that said, imagine my shock when Britney Spears, our national spokesmodel for all things blond, decided to go brunette, literally and figuratively returning to her roots. One week, she’s blond as God and Preference by L’Oreal intended and doing things like marrying and divorcing in a day, and the next, she dyes her hair, becomes a brunette, and starts studying Jewish mysticism.
On behalf of blondes everywhere, what up?
Oh, Britney, must we turn to Christina Applegate or—horrors!—Courtney Love as our leader now?
As a blonde in mind, spirit, and bottle, I’m not worried. The ability to do math and chew gum at the same time is highly overrated. Britney’ll be back.
As if losing my blondeness isn’t bad enough, lately something strange has been happening with my eyeballs.
For a year or so now, I’ve gotten lots of snickers from friends who think it’s odd that I read my menu at arm’s length.
“Arms too short?” Heh, heh, heh.
“Isn’t it time you got some reading glasses?”
“The same thing happened to my eyes when I turned fifty.”
Fifty?!
I’m not fifty, although I can sort of make it out as a blurry image in the not-so-distant future. Yes, yes, I realize that “getting older beats the alternative,” but I am a vain creature.
When I recently asked the waiter at a fancy restaurant for a pair of “house reading glasses,” he looked at me with the same disdain as if I had asked for a foam doughnut to sit on.
My friend who is a little younger than me recently had a miniature nervous breakdown after a department store clerk cheerily deducted an extra 15 percent “because today is Senior Day!”
“What does that have to do with me?” my friend asked innocently,
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