Archive for blondes

BLONDE BOMBSHELL

Posted in writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 15, 2013 by kimmy

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What is it about the willowy blonde that makes all heads turn?  No matter how shopworn or decrepit, they seem to possess a certain magnetism which pre-empts common sense.

I was standing at my gate in Atlanta airport the other day, watching a particularly handsome older gentleman jabber into his cellphone.  He was well-dressed and waiting in the priority aisle, apparently conducting business while waiting to board.  Being the invisible observer all my life, I was able to watch him without detection.

He neither blinked nor paid the slightest attention to the growing crowd of restless travelers around him until a tall woman with long blonde hair crossed the room.  Suddenly his mouth stopped moving and his eyes tracked her movement.

I glanced away with a smile.  It was a classic reaction, given most men that I’ve known.  However, as she passed me, I could clearly see that she was on the far side of fifty and a little worse for the wear.  I couldn’t help but wonder if, having been the belle of the ball during her youth, she was willing to let go of that template and gracefully accept the inevitable changes of age.  Judging from her lank hair and teenybopper clothing, my guess was no.

I didn’t have long to wonder as I caught a later glimpse of her in the ladies room in Miami.  She must have been on my flight and the brief trip had taken a toll.  She was brushing her hair obsessively, watching long golden strands fall into the sink and arranging the few that remained attached over a bald spot.  She poked a lax cheek with a disapproving finger before applying a thick coat of makeup and striking a weary pose before the mirror.  It reminded me of those duck-lipped self portraits posted on Twitter.  No doubt she’d worked that look before.

I gave it no more thought during my stay in Florida.  There are countless faded blondes in South Beach, each one more tanned, more collagen-injected, more bikini-ready than the next.  After a few days they didn’t seem novel, attracting less attention than the pasty-white arrivals from the North.

My Cubana girlfriends in Hialeah laughed at me.  “We don’t care what Cosmospolitan says, mija.  Only dogs gnaw on hueso.”

A couple of days in the company of their good humor and lavish hips, I almost believed them if not for the scarcity of blonde hueso in Cuban society.  And when they did occasionally appear, they were uniformly hissed.

“Mamí, did you see that blonde puta shoving her tits in my man’s face?  La voy a kick her skinny culo!”

I didn’t stay to watch the outcome, but she probably made good on that promise as a warning to other flaxen-haired trespassers.

On the flight home, I reflected on my experience.  I was no closer to discovering the secret to blonde allure than when I started.  The only thing I knew with certainty is that they all become grey in the end.