Starting fresh - theme for the blog.
Colour Me Life
Colour me life, for I am a shade of grey.
Hair colours and stereotypes go hand in hand. My head has been a chameleon, welcoming stereotypes and swimming in self-indulgent glory. Join me and my hair on my latest escapades and philosophical discoveries.
Blonde
Ever hear the one about the blonde who... no lets not go into the long list of exhaustingly long jokes about blonde people. We get it. Blondes have no brains, high pitched voices and quite often a massive rack. Barbie meets the masses people. This stereotype was passed down to me from a packet full of dye and a roll of tin-foil. Little did I know that the whole "blondes have more fun" and "like, ya know, whatever" stereotypes actually exist for people who meet blondes. I was 16 years old and had my first break-up. I didn't take it well and the crazy child inside unleashed, found alcohol, and demanded change. I am not a creature of habit. I like to mix things up and go a little crazy by not subscribing to a regular coffee order, mixing up the Subway ingredients, and sometimes if I'm really out there I'll even take the long route home in the hopes that I bump into some other reckless people.
This change that I desperately craved at the ripe age of 16 called for a makeover. One that would show my ex I had moved on, gotten hotter and was having fun without him. What he got was a laugh at my poor lifestyle choices and the countless stories he would have heard about his blonde ex-girlfriend who was turning into a train wreck covered in tan. Just a shout out to all the blondes who fake tan - don't. For the love of all good things you just look stupid. Trust me. So there I was, 16, orange, blonde and a little (extremely) careless. At the time I remember thinking "Wow blondes do have more fun!" and admittedly I did have fun. Until I became the idiotic bimbo we laugh at in jokes. Although, I think that if you ask anyone what they were like when they were 16, their tale would run a similar course. Our hormones are bouncing off every fibre in our bodies, we find new experiences which warp our perceptions of the world, and our willingness to say "fuck this" becomes a lifestyle.
So did I become a product of the Blonde stereotype? I think I did. I had the blonde locks with the torn ends, the high pitched voice from squealing at all the 'raves' which were popular in high school, and puberty had blessed me with the rack. Did I transform into an irresponsible and mindless idiot? Hell yes. I was so intent on being the life of the party that I failed to see where the party ended and I was living in a well of pity and stupidity. To live in hindsight would be a beautiful thing.
Brunette
My natural hair is mousy brown. It is a dull, lifeless version of the glossy wooden locks we see on the covers of magazines and the packets of hair-dye. Like the less-than-average shade of my natural hair so is the reception that comes with it. You know that line "Shag a blonde, marry a brunette" well if you want to get all analytical on this blog then you could side with that. You fuck the blonde (16 year old blonde) because she is young, inexperienced, and living life (as she thinks) to the full. And you marry the brunette because you want someone who wants to settle down, just take it easy and has a shred of self respect.
Similar to my blonde transformation, becoming a brunette again was brought on by the need for change in my repetitive life. It also signals the change from teenage years into adulthood (although can you really classify 20 as adulthood? Our frontal lobes are still growing and I still classify the Katie then as a naive and careless person). I was halfway through University and my brain was craving more intelligence than my blonde appearance would allow. Wanting to toss out the blonde image and make way for a new intelligent look was welcomed on by another packet of cheap hair-dye and the assistance of a friend who tired of my outdated blonde locks. I didn't feel more grown up, nor did I feel more intelligent, articulate, or sensible. I was still the same person, just with healthy hair and a normal complexion (I had ditched the fake tan by this stage, or at least toned it down). But somehow this altercation of my appearance invited reserved judgements about my appearance.
It was always interesting to ask the opposite sex what their preferred hair colour is between blonde and brunette. Expecting to find blondes winning by a mile, it was actually the brunettes which came out the stronger of the two from my limited supply of statistics. Did men find brunettes more attractive, or were they buying into the sensible and clever stereotype? Were they inherently craving somebody practical to share their beds with? Biology getting in the way of what men find attractive? Or did they simply find brunettes more attractive because, lets face it, brunettes are babes. Break me off a piece of Rashida Jones, Mila Kunis, or Zooey Deschanel any time.
For me, brunette is a safety net. It's that grey woollen jumper you put on with a pair of old underwear and snuggle in when you're feeling dowdy and precious. It's that moment when I started to come to terms with what the blonde had created, and it was a person who dealt with blonde's mistakes and started to pave a new path for all future hair colours. Personification of my hair. My English teachers would be so proud.
Red
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I was able to pass judgement on my past hair colours as they were years earlier. It is harder to comment on my ginger locks as I've only been a ginger for a few months. What I can comment on is that it too was brought on by change. Having grown out of my home-town fuelled my desire to grow up and move cities. I was thrust into a city (still in the comfort of New Zealand) with no job, no money, no house, and no friends. I know people do this all the time, in different countries, as different genders, and with different outlooks on the life they want to mould for themselves. I had no idea what this new city would bring for me, but it seemed appropriate that I signal to my Facebook friends that I was in another pivotal moment of life - the ginger phase.
Blonde welcomed idiotic jokes, brunette welcomed non-judgemental comments, and ginger welcomes smart asses. It seems that hair colour determines a person and gives others a limited supply of jokes and taunts. Never have I heard so many jokes about my hair colour. Luckily they are usually quite funny, and if they aren't I retaliate with some mediocre sarcastic comment or if I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel I'll show them the middle finger.
So here I am now, building up my CV, with a new group of friends, in an apartment in the city, sleeping in the corner of a cave and on the next leg of this journey we call life. I can't help but giggle as I write that. I'm still that immature blonde, the homely brunette, and I'm living in a mask of ginger pretending to be this profound individual when I'm really just a sack of skin and bones, coexisting with other self indulgent sacks.
