Mid-life Metamorphosis
So, recently I inflicted a change upon myself that in some ways embarrasses the hell out of me to talk about.
It's something, as a generally self-respecting, moodybroody, sarcastic, pensive, reclusive sort of gal, that I am still a little surprised I went through with. Still not entirely sure what possessed me, and still not entirely sure what the ramifications are.
This was no easy change. It was costly, took several hours and caused lots of mild physical pain. No, not tattoos...I have plenty of those. In fact, having arms nearly entirely covered with them may serve as an incongruous WTF element combined with this new trait. But this Sabbatical, when I am about to start a new chapter in my life, was the perfect time, really.
I went from brunette/dark red to serious blonde.
Yikes. It seems unsavory to even mention...so Anti-How-I-Am, really. And no offense to any blondes who may come across this. It's just, I always believed that blonde was for pretty, normal girls. And I've never thought of myself as a pretty or normal girl. Perhaps I thought in some childish little way that blonde might make me pretty. Otherwise, it's for girls with certain personalities and levels of self-confidence. Again...NOT ME. It's also, at least, for "high-maintenance" girls...perhaps vain ones? Ones worthy of regular salon visits. I never thought that was me. I've long been a one-or-two-trims-a-year, drugstore hairdye kind of girl. Honestly. I don't know. I guess I just couldn't stop looking at Veronica Lake pictures. As if I could remotely approximate that glamour...especially when I spend most of my time in hairy scrubs and have horse and/or chicken poo on my shoes at any given moment.
But it has been, after a week now, an interesting, interesting experiment.
A few days into it, when I was still walking by a window and peripherally catching my sunlit reflection (SHOCK!!) or upon waking up in the morning, for a split second wondering who snuck in and put a clown wig on me while I slept,I was this close to running back to my hairdresser (who is a vintage enthusiast, owner of a pin-up makeover/photo business, and color corrections expert...super-trustworthy, in my mind) in big sunglasses and a huge headscarf to beg for the comfort of safe brown or familiar red to end my anxiety. But now... I actually think it's growing on me and I will rock it a while.
It just seems like a possible chicken and egg thing. I'm in no way gregarious, smiley, eye-contacty, bubbly. In general, I like to pass unnoticed, under the radar....so why then? Perhaps I am sick of being dour and forgettable. And I fear that my dourness, at my age, is maybe not so much about being ironic and cynical and tragically hip anymore but is actually simply putting me on the on-ramp to the highway that leads straight to Unpleasant, Bitter Old Crone. And I am not sure I want to go there. If being blonde purportedly garners favorable attention (and it's supposedly subconscious, like the way we all react to the proportions of a baby-like face), then perhaps it will work in reverse to make me more pleasant.
That's my (tentative) theory.
I was an idiot to stick a picture on facebook afterwards, even though that is a topical events kind of forum....and with the amount of fretting I was doing before, during and after the process, it was most certainly topical. There were a couple dozen "OMG!! I love it!"s from friends and acquaintences, but can one really believe that, in context? Why did I do that...garner the "OMG!"s, even if they were sincere?If they were. I was embarrassed and felt like a vain compliment-fisher. Blegh. I've come to really not like that means of communication. But for a person like me who just wants to stay passively connected and not cease to exist, socially, then I suppose it suits its purpose. Though sometimes I feel dirty saying anything about anything at all....because really, can't everything you say there be construed as either bragging or complaining? Ick. I prefer NOT to be known for doing either. Anyhow....where was I? Oh, yeah.
But, back to the blonde thing. The first day I went out into the world, I about had a panic attack in the craft store because I was sure that people were staring in horror. But, how silly is that? Reverting to the self-centered, "invisible audience" thing of adolescence? Oh, PLEASE. Who really cares about anyone else anyway? And, even if some grandmotherly type does stare with a bit of the pickle-face, I assume it's my hair and not my garish, inky arms? HI. Dumb. What is my problem?!
I think too much, is the problem.
In the most general sense though (and not about me in particular) it is quite, quite fascinating to see what effect something like this has on people's perceptions, predjudices, assumptions, catergorizations, first impressions. Most certainly including my own...about who I am or can be.
Maybe I should consider it less a vain Me thing, but as a lofty intellectual, sociological experiment. Yeah, that's it. Right. If nothing else, it'll look good and glamourous at gigs.
What a difference, though.
Before:
After:
I suppose I need have no fear of looking like an overtanned, porn bimbo. Because, stupidly...I have worried about that.
O' Vanity and your best pal, Insecurity! Begone! (I highly recommend the 85 SPF, incidentally.)
It will be interesting. Yes.
It's something, as a generally self-respecting, moodybroody, sarcastic, pensive, reclusive sort of gal, that I am still a little surprised I went through with. Still not entirely sure what possessed me, and still not entirely sure what the ramifications are.
This was no easy change. It was costly, took several hours and caused lots of mild physical pain. No, not tattoos...I have plenty of those. In fact, having arms nearly entirely covered with them may serve as an incongruous WTF element combined with this new trait. But this Sabbatical, when I am about to start a new chapter in my life, was the perfect time, really.
I went from brunette/dark red to serious blonde.
Yikes. It seems unsavory to even mention...so Anti-How-I-Am, really. And no offense to any blondes who may come across this. It's just, I always believed that blonde was for pretty, normal girls. And I've never thought of myself as a pretty or normal girl. Perhaps I thought in some childish little way that blonde might make me pretty. Otherwise, it's for girls with certain personalities and levels of self-confidence. Again...NOT ME. It's also, at least, for "high-maintenance" girls...perhaps vain ones? Ones worthy of regular salon visits. I never thought that was me. I've long been a one-or-two-trims-a-year, drugstore hairdye kind of girl. Honestly. I don't know. I guess I just couldn't stop looking at Veronica Lake pictures. As if I could remotely approximate that glamour...especially when I spend most of my time in hairy scrubs and have horse and/or chicken poo on my shoes at any given moment.
But it has been, after a week now, an interesting, interesting experiment.
A few days into it, when I was still walking by a window and peripherally catching my sunlit reflection (SHOCK!!) or upon waking up in the morning, for a split second wondering who snuck in and put a clown wig on me while I slept,I was this close to running back to my hairdresser (who is a vintage enthusiast, owner of a pin-up makeover/photo business, and color corrections expert...super-trustworthy, in my mind) in big sunglasses and a huge headscarf to beg for the comfort of safe brown or familiar red to end my anxiety. But now... I actually think it's growing on me and I will rock it a while.
It just seems like a possible chicken and egg thing. I'm in no way gregarious, smiley, eye-contacty, bubbly. In general, I like to pass unnoticed, under the radar....so why then? Perhaps I am sick of being dour and forgettable. And I fear that my dourness, at my age, is maybe not so much about being ironic and cynical and tragically hip anymore but is actually simply putting me on the on-ramp to the highway that leads straight to Unpleasant, Bitter Old Crone. And I am not sure I want to go there. If being blonde purportedly garners favorable attention (and it's supposedly subconscious, like the way we all react to the proportions of a baby-like face), then perhaps it will work in reverse to make me more pleasant.
That's my (tentative) theory.
I was an idiot to stick a picture on facebook afterwards, even though that is a topical events kind of forum....and with the amount of fretting I was doing before, during and after the process, it was most certainly topical. There were a couple dozen "OMG!! I love it!"s from friends and acquaintences, but can one really believe that, in context? Why did I do that...garner the "OMG!"s, even if they were sincere?If they were. I was embarrassed and felt like a vain compliment-fisher. Blegh. I've come to really not like that means of communication. But for a person like me who just wants to stay passively connected and not cease to exist, socially, then I suppose it suits its purpose. Though sometimes I feel dirty saying anything about anything at all....because really, can't everything you say there be construed as either bragging or complaining? Ick. I prefer NOT to be known for doing either. Anyhow....where was I? Oh, yeah.
But, back to the blonde thing. The first day I went out into the world, I about had a panic attack in the craft store because I was sure that people were staring in horror. But, how silly is that? Reverting to the self-centered, "invisible audience" thing of adolescence? Oh, PLEASE. Who really cares about anyone else anyway? And, even if some grandmotherly type does stare with a bit of the pickle-face, I assume it's my hair and not my garish, inky arms? HI. Dumb. What is my problem?!
I think too much, is the problem.
In the most general sense though (and not about me in particular) it is quite, quite fascinating to see what effect something like this has on people's perceptions, predjudices, assumptions, catergorizations, first impressions. Most certainly including my own...about who I am or can be.
Maybe I should consider it less a vain Me thing, but as a lofty intellectual, sociological experiment. Yeah, that's it. Right. If nothing else, it'll look good and glamourous at gigs.
What a difference, though.
Before:
After:
I suppose I need have no fear of looking like an overtanned, porn bimbo. Because, stupidly...I have worried about that.
O' Vanity and your best pal, Insecurity! Begone! (I highly recommend the 85 SPF, incidentally.)
It will be interesting. Yes.
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