Want to know a secret?
I’m not a natural blond.
Okay…maybe that’s not exactly a secret.
Especially after my dad exposed me at my going away party a few weeks ago.
After a few too many beverages, Mark approached two of my light-haired friends and I, a mischievous glimmer in his eye.
With a swagger that can only be described as slightly arrogant and highly inappropriate, he explained that he had a wager going with “the fellas” as to how many of us were natural blondes.
By “fellas” he meant the group of guys half his age who had allowed him free access to their beer pitcher that evening. My apologies, Eric.
I will say that it ended with my father proclaiming for all to hear that I was “chemically enhanced”.
I’ll also say that once your affinity for animal print speedos and dumpster diving is public knowledge, there’s not a whole lot you can do to shock people.
If my dad’s announcement didn’t give away my natural hair color, this photo that recently surfaced on Facebook did.
That’s me at the age of five playing Oliver Twist in the Seward, Alaska performance of Viva La Broadway. As it turns out, Scott isn’t the only member of our family that enjoys wearing bow ties.
I’ve been lightening my hair since college, and was in desperate need of a touch up this weekend, as my roots had grown to a length I’m too embarrassed to specify on the internet. Choosing a hairdresser in a new town is terrifying. I had finally found someone I trusted in Seattle, and blindly booking an appointment based on a Yelp review required a great deal of courage on my part.
Yes, getting my hair foiled by a stranger was courageous. Particulalry because I’ve had my fair share of hair colorings gone wrong.
There was the time I payed over $250 for a Ballard hairstylist who shall remain nameless to dye my locks grey.
Or the 2008 incident where my mane ended up a shade that can only be descirbed as earwax gold.
And let’s not forget the catastrophic bang trim that set me back no less than $72.
When I arrived at Concrete Image Salon on Saturday, I was shaking in my boots.
No, shaking in my roots.
You see, hairstyles in Midwestern small towns are a little…um…different than what I’m used to. One of the most popular looks is something I refer to as the “chunky skunk”.
I made it abundantly clear that I wanted only blonde foils. No low-lights and no skunkiness.
Two hours later, I emerged looking like the Norwegian version of Snooki.
I take full responsobility for the furry collar, by the way. But not the poufiness. Never the poufiness.
I had a feeling this was going to happen. Especially after my stylist informed me that “big hair is happy hair”.
Fortunately, after a few hours of shopping my coif began to deflate.
I’ve been left with locks that are a little lighter than I had anticipated, yet in the Scandinavian motherland I now call home, it’s necessary to take things up a notch in order to still be considered a blonde.
Overall, I’m quite pleased with the end result. Especially because the full foil, haircut and style came in under $100. I’d heard rumors of these mythical low prices, but never believed they actually existed. Which left me with some leftover cash for a new pair of jeans, and renewed confidence that unicorns really do exist. If I can get my hair done for that price, anything is possible.
But seriously, I needed a new pair of jeans.
Because when getting dressed that morning, I ripped the seat out of one of the two pairs I had remembered to pack.
Which just may be more embarrassing than having my dad “out” my true hair color at a party.
Regardless, I needed new pants. And some possible tweaking to my cookies/jogging ratio.
I made sure to ask my stylist if the mall across the street had a Gap, so that I might purchase my denim with ease and convenience. The Gap makes great styles in “ankle length” which my stubby midget legs truly appreciate.
“Oh…yeah, they have a Gap. It’s right by the entrance to Sears. But I never go in there…the Gap is so boring. There’s some other shops you should try if you want jeans that are a little more fun.”
Disparaging comments about the Gap are normally blasphemous and punishable by three-hours of hard time in the nearest Old Navy. But I’m all about having more fun.
Against my better judgement, I went in search of these jeans she spoke of and quickly learned that “fun” is Minnesotan for “douchey”.
Don’t worry gentleman. I didn’t forget about you.
I love all things bedazzled. With the exception of jeans. They are sacred; the one item of clothing with which I feel it is important to demonstrate restraint.
Yes, I just suggested exercising restraint. Somewhere pigs are flying right now. Probably with all the pretty unicorns.
I’m ashamed to admit that for a split second, I considered getting the douche denim. I already had the big hair covered…would it be so wrong to just give in and transform myself into ‘Sota Snooki?
Who exactly is ‘Sota Snooki, you ask?
‘Sota Snooki drinks Aquavit eggnogs instead of Vodka Red Bulls.
‘Sota Snooki much prefers Lake Wobegon to the Jersey Shore.
‘Sota Snooki goes to the Lutheran church, not the tanning bed.
‘Sota Snooki thinks GTL stands for “Gravy, Tater tots, Lutefisk”.
‘Sota Snooki assumes that fist pumping is something you do to your opponent’s face during a game of ice hockey.
Overall, ‘Sota Snooki seems like kind of a cool chick.
I take it back. Spray tan + Walleye = not something I want to be a part of.
Unless there’s Aquavit eggnogs involved, of course.
I stuck to my instincts and purchased two pairs of “boring” jeans at the Gap. Along with a navy and cream trenchcoat that claims to be 98% effective at repelling “The Situation” and his legion of sparkly jean-wearing protégés.
I’m not trying to dog on Minnesota style. Most of my new northern neighbors are quite stylish and trendy. Just yesterday I spied a Michael Kors chunky knit sweater than nearly brought a tear to my eye.
Well, the tear was either from the sweater or the fumes coming from the man smoking reindeer meat next door. Regardless, it was a breathtaking piece of knitwear, which ironically had reindeer embroidered on it. I found the entire situation quite poetic.
Dare I say it, ‘Sota is not only sexy, it is stylish. More than anything, my insults are directed at small-town fashion, which is certainly not exclusive to the Midwest.
In case you’ve forgotten, I hail from the South Tacoma suburb of Parkland. If my hometown isn’t the birthplace of douche wear, it certainly deserves an honorable mention.
And, as much as I hate to admit it, this Washington Apple doesn’t fall far from her Parkland-planted tree. While I may turn my nose up at bedazzled, whiskered stretchy jeans, I’m not above purchasing a $3.25 tank top from the 98445.
By the way? This top looked awesome with my newly teased hair. I know because I tried it on the instant I got home. And then promptly reclined on the couch to watch the latest episode of Cheaters while demolishing an entire bag of Funyuns.
I may or may not have summoned Jolie to lick the crumbs from my lap.
If the Funyuns have any say in the matter, I’ll be ripping the seat out of my new jeans in no time.
You’ll know I’ve really let myself go when I start incorporating smoked reindeer meat into my diet. Although apparently, it pairs wonderfully with tater tots.