The Litter Box

I’m a wild woman.

No really, stop laughing, It’s true.

I definitely have a rebellious side. I appear gracious, conventional, and even quiet. But inside, I secretly want to pull your hair.

Surprised? Apparently, you’re in good company. At my former job, I was known as “the good girl.” When I first heard this, I started wondering what it was that made people think this about me… or rather, what it was that I could change to get them to see the other side of me. I hemmed and hawed over a number of different options, until I came up with one that suddenly seemed so clear.

I should go blonde.

We’ve all heard the banality that “blondes have more fun.” I’ve often wondered if that was really true. And now seemed like the perfect opportunity to find out. So that’s exactly what I did.

On a somewhat rainy afternoon, I popped Hairspray into the DVD player (for inspiration, of course) and sat down to pull, bleach, and slather my hair with some horrendous smelling chemical paste. Sounds enticing, no? I pushed the odor out of my mind and instead focused on picturing the end result–something similar to the golden locks of Pamela Anderson (although I’d need a couple other assets that I don’t have to really compete with her). An hour and a shower or two later, I was ready to see the new me. Full of anticipation, I whipped the towel off my head to see…

Winnie the Pooh.

This was no Pamela Anderson.

Yes, I knew the chemical combinations of bleaches and dyes could be tricky. But I had read the instructions!! And I had followed the instructions! So what went wrong? I suddenly knew exactly what the song Beauty School Dropout was all about. Poor Frenchy. And poor me.

After a few minutes of shocked silence, I saved face (as much for me as for my then-roommate who aided me in my beauty school transformation) and decided that it was not so bad. After all, I did this to prove I could be wild–and what could be more wild than this? If blondes are wild just because they are blondes, I could be wild just because I was… orange.

So I set out to have some fun. A few days and a few awkward compliments came and went and I was sure I had made a statement… not entirely sure what that statement was, but I had definitely made one. But then I thought that maybe the hair wasn’t enough. So I made a list of other wild necessities: a motorcycle, a HUGE man following me around… and an alibi. But one by one, I crossed these things off my list. They were either too expensive, too… well… ugly, or just plain stupid (even a girl named Cat isn’t creative enough to come up with an alibi that is both possible and plausible).

You see officer, I was attacked by a beautician at the mall who wanted revenge on her little sister who looks a lot like me.

But officer, you don’t understand. I’m a victim of a practical joke set in place by none other than the CEO of Loreal Cosmetics. She always was jealous of me.

No sir, I’m not reporting a crime because my hair is curly. I’m reporting a crime because my hair is orange.

OK. It’s pretty obvious that I suck at this–even after watching countless hours of initial-based crime TV shows like CSI, NCIS, SVU, CI… PU… LOL. It’s obvious that I’m no blonde–but what does this mean for my quest to show my wild side? Have I been wrong all this time?

I’m still not convinced. The blonde will soon be gone… but a tattoo, however…