Here’s a rambling, but effective example...about my hair.
“Salon Eros, how may I help you?”
“Yes, this is Robby Morris and I’m calling to see if Amelia can fit me in this week for a touch up.”
“Let me check her schedule.” (Cue the Jeopardy theme music.)
“Mr. Morris, she’s booked solid. She has an opening on the 21st? Would you like to schedule an appointment for then?
Gasp! This was the 3rd. The 21st was 18 days away! A fortnight with sad, common person hair! Oh my God! I feel dizzy! Is it hot in here? And what’s that burning smell? Am I having a stroke?
“Mr. Morris? Would you like to schedule that appointment?”
“Um, is there, uh, any chance I could speak with her for a second?”
“She’s with a client right now. Would you like to schedule that appointment for the 21st?”
“Listen bitch, I’ve been with Amelia since you were doing your Barbie’s hair at your Mama’s kitchen table! Now you march your country ass over to her work station and tell her I AM ON THE LINE!” (What? I’m from the Midwest. I call everyone country. And bitch. And lots of other things.)
Okay, I didn’t really say that. I accepted the appointment despite it being nearly three weeks past my hair’s expiration date. Then I ended the call and threw myself down on the ground and wailed like a spoiled child being deprived ice cream.
Did I mention I was standing in line at the grocery store on my cell when this breakdown took place?
But I digress. Going after what you want is not for pussies. Take for instance my journey to become the blonde diva I was always meant to be.
My obsession with my hair and its color began right between my 5th and 6th birthdays. I was born a towhead. I had the most luxurious blonde hair ever seen on a little boy in all the world (okay, in all of Independence, Missouri). But then slowly it began to change. Within a season, my gorgeous blonde locks turned to the color of mouse poo. Dreadful.
Even at the age of 6, I understood the harsh reality of life. “This. Fucking. Sucks.” I whined to Mother shortly before she sat me in the corner with a bar of soap crammed sideways in my mouth.
And I put up with this tragedy of follicle proportions for the next 8 years. I know. Can you imagine?
For years, everywhere I turned, blondes taunted me. Okay not really, but it felt like it. Just Say Julie (Brown) had the song “Cause I’m a Blonde” that was used in the movie Earth Girls Are Easy (ridiculous film, but she’s a fucking goddess!). Madonna launched The Blond Ambition Tour 1990 (which coincidently, Miss Brown parodied in the cult special, Medusa: Dare To Be Truthful...did I mention she’s a fucking goddess?). I couldn’t even escape the blonde monster at school. In the 7th grade we were required to read S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders. It changed my life. If you haven’t read it, you’re kind of lame. It’s about a group of boys from the wrong side of the tracks dealing with being looked down upon by the rest of society. One specific scene had its anti-hero, Ponyboy Curtis, going on the run after a devastating event and having to disguise himself. Using a bottle of peroxide and a toothbrush, he becomes a blonde. Um, hello! I was a teenage gay boy needing to run away from my devastating, cow plop colored tresses! (Side note: A really awesome film adaptation by Francis Ford Coppola introduced me to my first teenage celebrity crush, Rob Lowe, but that’s another story...a much stickier story.)
Soon after, I was inspired and determined to fix nature’s mistake. I purchased my first box of do-it-yourself hair color. The brand was Nice & Easy. Okay, convincing the quarterback that fooling around with me was only gay if he kept his eyes open was nice and easy. This chemical nightmare in a box was not. Not only did I unintentionally redecorate my parent’s bathroom with multiple blotches of hair color, I didn’t quite understand that it is scientifically impossible to make crap colored hair the color of sunlight with stuff you buy off the shelf at the same place you buy your tampons. Nonetheless, I did manage to rid myself of my stool colored hair. Unfortunately, this upgrade was Woody Woodpecker Orange. Talk about flaming.
When I was sixteen (and at the height of my fearlessness and fabulousness), I walked into the salon where my best girlfriend went to get her hair did, approached her stylist, pointed to my head and asked, “Can you make this platinum blonde?”
“Seriously?” she asked.
“Like a motherfuckin’ heart attack.”
Six hours later, Serial Blonde 1.0 was born. And I have never looked back.
So what the hell does my obsession with being a blonde have to do with you wrangling your destiny?
Let me tell you. If I’ve learned anything in my 29 years (if I can be blonde I can sure as shit be 29) it’s that if you don’t like something about your self, change it. Right now. If you have a big ass, love it or lose it! If your insides are screaming fabulous but your outsides whimper homely and pathetic, march on down to your local house of beauty and get a mani/pedi, get your brows done (not too much boys, you still need to look fuckable and won’t be with Disney Princess eyebrows) or go for a new hair cut or color. Whatever you need to do to make you feel better about yourself, do it! Now! I’ll wait...
...Well?
P.S. Shameless plug of the week: Before you start working on the brand new you, go to iTunes and buy Julie Brown’s Smell the Glamour. One more time incase you didn’t catch it earlier: she’s a fucking goddess!
Now that I've had my say, let's hear yours! Post a comment below or email me at robbymorris.serialblonde@gmail.com!
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