My Albanian granddad, whom I never met, gave me my dark hair and eyes. Used to be, people would assume I was Jewish or Italian or both.*
I was like a pale ethnic schwa.
Well, last week I had an unfortunate encounter with highlights, and people now assume I've had children.
Sometimes we compare choices that are wise against those that, in retrospect, are foolish.
This ill-advised decision stemmed from NOT wanting to look like every other "serious" East Coast female theater artist, with dark, messy-banged hair and chunked-out eyeglasses. I was all, I want to be an individual. I'll be the playwright people have to take seriously despite her sloppy American blondeness and boobage.
I even wore a floral skirt the other day. If you know me, can you even picture it? NO.
All I want is a box of dark dark hair dye. Stat.
Of course I got my lanyarded plastinated magnetized work ID today, complete with a photo of my expensive mistake. Sigh. At least I look like I have a black eye in the pic. Yeah, 'cause I'm a badass ninja cube-rat.
*That I worked at a synagogue and speak Italian supported these assumptions.