Last year, a Starbucks barista didn’t ask me my name when I ordered a latte. He simply wrote “Blondie” on my cup.
“Who the hell is he calling ‘Blondie’?” I thought. “I’m a brunette.”
Or at least, I had been my whole life until two years ago, when I ventured into the world of foils, bleaches and pricey blowouts.
I grew up on the pre-Snookified Jersey Shore, where if you wanted highlights, you squeezed a lemon on your head, sat in the sun and prayed for light streaks. My naturally dark hair had been unprocessed (save for what I could buy in the produce aisle), so in March 2012, I decided to live out my latent teenage fantasy and go pastel purple.
The colorist worked for five hours on my stubborn chocolate strands to create the blank slate he needed — a rather awesome shade of gray. He then mixed in a delightful shade of lilac. I loved it — as did my relatively preppy friends. My septuagenarian aunt raved about it. There was no shock and awe. It seemed so, um, normal. When the color washed out, I was left with my edgy gray hair, which felt so chic, a la Bergdorf’s fashion director Linda Fargo.
Unfortunately, it reduced my once-vivacious, wavy dark hair to the stick-straight, frayed variety. I resembled Doc Brown in “Back to the Future.” Oh, if only I had a flux capacitor to go back and save my hair, I would have.
Still, the processing ended up being such a production, I decided to stay light. I experimented, too, trying out everything from a soft flaxen hue to dark roots to a bright Dallas socialite blond. Once, after going straight from the salon to my friend’s gala, one attendee introduced himself to me because he thought I was the host, a local newscaster.
My appearance said “polished blonde,” but my insides screamed offbeat, salty brunette.
Finally, a straight male friend said to me, “You look good as a blonde, but when you were brunette, your blue eyes came into the room first. They don’t stand out anymore.” He was right. My best feature had become a non-feature.
I looked washed out and haggard in photos. The texture was a mess unless I got a salon blowout. And I spent too much time worrying about when I could squeeze in a touch-up. But most of all, I felt ill at ease, as if I had betrayed my southern Italian and northern Spanish genes.
So, much like actresses Elisabeth Moss and Greta Gerwig, I also recently decided to return to my roots.
When I went to the dark side, I enlisted colorist Rick Wellman from the Patrick Melville Salon.
“The biggest challenge when going light to dark is getting the color to look rich and to hold,” says Wellman.
He “filled” my processed hair first with golden orange tones, and then put brown over it. Wellman then gave me a few highlights to balance out my color. It took all of 30 minutes. And I loved it. It was good to be back.
So to answer the question, do blondes have more fun? No, they just spend more money.