Love her or hate her, once you realized Kim hadn’t wet-shaved her head (would have been a moment, don’t deny it!) you felt that familiar feeling. That rising dread. The one which feels feral, the one which tells you to make a bad decision. The one which—despite everything you know about upkeep, long-term damage, chewing-gummy ends, and that it doesn’t look that good on you, you tried it once in high school and it was a disaster—urges you to go blonde. To slap on the bleach, sizzle out the pigment, and choose fun.
Yes, alas, the hair transformation is officially back. Ushered in of course by Kim Kardashian at the Met Gala in her Marilyn Dress with her newish beau on her arm—another one with a penchant for the peroxide pot—here we are in 2022: mercilessly at the whim of celebrities and their ever changing hair.
Where does this feeling come from? This deep, hot want to cause your unsuspecting follicles great damage? This feeling I’ve given into every three months for a decade, causing what some might call “a thinning patch at your crown,” and what others might call “the best decision of your life.” It comes from the cultural idea that blondes have more fun, that gentlemen prefer blondes. It comes from that darned place of unnatural beauty; the one we spend so much of our time rightly critiquing but some part of us, somehow, still desperately seeks acceptance into. Nobody has hair that blonde. Nobody. And really, blondness telegraphs a certain kind of message to your viewer: you’re easy going, a little more dumb than you really are (we’re in the age of the bimbo, if you hadn’t heard), you’re up for a good time.
In my experience, it can be a joyful reclamation. People underestimate blonds, for all the aforementioned reasons, but Marilyn was a radical socialist with a higher IQ than the man she sang Happy Birthday to in that dress. It allows you to bring them in, then bowl them over with your mind, not just your mane.
Going blonde is no easy feat. It’s costly, it ruins your hair, it hurts. It’ll have you trying endless utterly useless products, and leave you—on some days—feeling like you’re wearing a straw hat instead of a luscious head of hair. Sure, there’s ways to prevent it—oils, plexes, not doing it—but at some point or another in your blonde journey you will have a moment where you look in the mirror and gasp with horror when you see Worzel Gummidge looking right back (Google it).
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