There is something particular in having bright blond hair in Paris. I have always thought that people with goldilocks enjoy as special status in this city, but now I am convinced we are not only considered eccentric but nearly as endangered species. I was once walking on the street when a car stuffed with guys passed by. The comment was as eloquent as it was profound: “Look, there is a blond walking on the street!”
Who can catch a blonde?
Being a blonde has its pros and cons. First of all, you never forget your existence. No matter what you wear, even if you go out with an overall covering you from top to bottom, but there is a lock of hair jutting out of the mass of cloth, you will feel distressingly conscious of yourself. Secondly, you get your logopaedic skills to a whole new level when you learn to interpret sounds like ‘muuah’, ‘tssss’, ‘hrrrr’ or ‘uuuuph’. You also develop Matrix-like abilities to dodge every suspicious man on the street who wants to touch your hair, I suppose there is healing magic in it.
When you have lived almost quarter of a century with a bleached mop, you certainly do not consider it something out of the ordinary. Nonetheless, some men think it a compliment to state something as evident as the colour of my hair. Once a man sat next to me in the metro and started something vaguely reminding a flirty discourse and said ‘I like blondes”. He obviously thought that he had hit the nail and now was waiting for the reaction with the most satisfied look on this face. Understandably, I was not so impressed.
Despite some testosteronic reactions that sometimes trouble my everyday life existence, it is actually very nice to be blond. I feel I am excused a lot of things and I am sure I would be even pardoned a state crime because of my golden hairline framing my angelic smile.
Fair hair also works the other way around: Things tend to happen to you when you look different. Human is not only intriguing but also a curious being, and I get to meet a lot of people because they come to talk to me. In addition, there are all sorts of little things you obtain like a Japanese pornographic anime film I “won” in a lottery in a bar.
Give me an inch and I will want a mile
However, there is a sort of a spoiling effect: You are so used to being an exception that you are appalled when treated normally. How come I have to pay the same price as everyone else? No reduction for blondes?
Or, if by any chance I see another goldilocks walking on the street, I feel a sudden rush of jealousy: Who she thinks she is? I am the blonde of Paris.