Month 3 of the Year 30

                This month I will not ask you to indulge me in a history of my hair because that would be both a brief and a dull recital. I am one of those people who has worn basically the same hair style since 8^th grade. Before 8^th grade, I had a long jet black mane that cascaded to my waist. Not nearly as glamorous as it sounds, my hair was actually very awkward-looking in photographs. I had lank, limp bangs which I tried to model after my idol, D.J. Tanner from Full House. If her bangs one season were fluffy and sprayed, so were mine; if hers were growing out and arched to the side in the next season, so were mine. At least then I had a hair plan and standard. Since then, for well-nigh seventeen years, I’ve pretty much worn my hair parted on the same side, bang-less, somewhere between ear and shoulder-length. Ne’ery a perm, ne’ery a rebellious purple dye job. Always sensible. Okay, so I’ve told my hairstory after all.

                It will come as no surprise that when I considered changing my hair for the year 30, I was too conservative to consider it seriously for long. Bangs get on my nerves. Color is expensive (except for the highlights Revlon and my friend Deana give me once a year). But despite my fears, I needed to do something drastic, something crazy--and for me this was going blonde. For such a measure, I needed a gutsy brunette friend who would go the distance with me. I thought I’d found the perfect friend for this in a girl I’ll call “Cassie.” So last year I started hinting at the possibility of us dying our hair blonde in 2011 and the first time I mentioned it, Cassie seemed game. However, every month thereafter she came to me with: “Um, Elisabeth, I don’t think I can go blonde…” Excuses. The boyfriend wouldn’t like it. Her “hairdresser” didn’t approve. 

                Mind you, I was mostly bluffing anyway since I was too poor, too practical, and too scared to permanently dye my hair blonde. Then Carriel, after church one night, suggested that being blonde need not be permanent; we could wear a blonde wig for a day. Bingo! After procuring two costume wigs from professors at my university (evidently faculty parties are the real parties on campus), we set a date for our blonde transformation.

                When we met at Cassie’s on the 18^th we assumed blonde personas along with our blonde hair (terribly stereotypical, I know). I was Krissi, the earnest one, intent on discovering whether fate had dealt her a cruel turn by making her brunette. Cassie was Candy, the spacey sidekick who was merely along for the ride.

                Our two greatest challenges were our natural timidity and our desire not to look like “women of the night.” The nature of the wigs—long, brassy, and very obviously fake—combined with our heavy makeup did not assuage the latter concern. As for our timidity, we overcame it…somewhat.

                Our first stop as Krissi and Candy was at a friend’s house, where we hemmed, hawed, and blushed. A little disorganized about where exactly we would go from there, and inhibited ever so slightly by Cassie, er, Candy’s timorousness, we opted for a gallery crawl in North Charlotte. We envisioned walking down a busy street, ducking into a coffee shop, and talking to people. Instead, with me at the wheel, we wound up at some dark shopping center/square where, nevertheless, we steeled ourselves under our blondeness and went to face the world.

                As we approached the square, passersby definitely did double takes but our goal was to act as natural as possible. And I mean, did I mention how ridiculous we looked? Cassie’s wig was white-blonde, crimped, a little tangled in places, and bushy. My long yellow hair kept shedding but more importantly, the part or seam was very apparent running along my forehead and through the part. Moreover, sometimes our brown ponytails peeped out under the blonde in back.

                At this point in the night, in this darkened shopping center not exactly bustling with people, we would feel like we had accomplished our objective (to see if life was more fun as a blonde? Or merely to discover if we possessed chutzpah?) if we could walk ourselves into a crowded coffee shop and order coffee without running away. That became our objective. Our first foray was unsuccessful. The coffee shop contained nice people with normal hair and we just couldn’t force ourselves to walk in. “Let’s just keep walking,” we said.

                Next door was a convenience store/deli where the people didn’t look quite as nice and their hair wasn’t quite as normal, so we felt more comfortable about entering. We walked in, all smiles, nodding like dignitaries to a few wondering women while we made our way to the candy aisle. Determined to buy something, Candy grabbed a pack of M&Ms and we checked out. The cashier, obviously not ‘merican, carried on a normal conversation with us but I couldn’t tell you what he said since we were still jumpy. The wigs didn’t phase him at all. Now that I think about it though, it was a little strange that he directed us to a “very nice” place out back. We, unthinking, heeded him—and it was nice, but not that nice.

                As ostensibly we were enjoying taking pictures “out back,” inwardly we were ratcheting up the courage to face the coffee shop people. “Okay, we are going to make our way back around the building, walk in the door, go right up to the cashier and order coffee.” Didn’t seem like a difficult plan.

                And we did it. We met a few more questioning stares before entering the shop but we did it. Candy may have been fighting the giggles, but she managed to slink right up to the counter and tremulously ask for a latte. We smiled and talked as naturally as possible to the cashier, but he knew something was up with us (I wonder how?). Finally, with a knowing smile, he said, “You’ll have to give me the number of your hair stylist.” Our cover was blown.

                What we were impressed by at the coffee shop was that no one cared much about our ridiculous wigs. Candy and I became more like psychologists than thrill-seekers, hypothesizing what people were thinking when they would glance our way curiously but then absorb themselves in their coffee or cake. We asked a lady nearby to take our picture and she did so gladly without blinking an eye. Some gazed longer than others, sure. The bottom line is that I think most people remember what their mamas told them: staring is rude.

                After awhile, the hot, itchy wigs became one with our scalps and for my part, Krissi took over. She was a fun girl, as was Candy. We were finally at home with our blondeness. Leaving the shop and driving away, we shared deep personal stories with one another and didn’t even notice that we were wearing faux hair all the while. After a couple more stops, including a McDonalds drive-thru, we had to retire our wigs for the night and reenter the atmosphere of being a brunette once more.

                Do blondes have more fun? Probably. I’m just glad they let us share their experience for one brief night.