It wasn’t what she said, it was the way she said it.
“Can you babysit on Friday ?” I asked Nan earlier this week.
“I’m getting my hair done.”
“It won’t be a long appointment though, I’m not getting highlights.”
“Oh?” she questioned.
“Yeah, I’m getting rid of the blonde.”
“Oh,” she said surprised in a much lower tone.
“Yeah, I can’t take it anymore. My hair is a mystery color. I want it to be one color. I’m growing back brown.”
“Oh,” and it was this disapproving tone that struck my nerve.
“What?” I snapped.
“What’s the matter with me dying my hair back brown?”
“Nothing,” a word that almost always means something. Take note of inflections, especially you, Baby Boy, you’ll need this with women.
“Ma, I have brown hair.”
“I know,” she said high-pitched, defensive.
“My hair right now is orange.”
“Aw,” she said with a tisk, like this was this great pity, “it’s just that, I like you as a blonde…”
…Today I am marching into a hair salon and dying my hair brown, something celebrities do for movie roles when they’re supposed to look “average” or “mousy” (see Scarlett Johansson in “We Bought a Zoo”):
There’s this saying, babies: Blondes have more fun.
This is asinine and not true. Take it from me, brunettes do all right in the fun department, too.