The New Rules for Blondes (18 page)

That summer we both
were
working for a living, just as Huey Lewis had said. Suzanne was a lifeguard at a pool near our hometown, and I spent my days working as a temp for a hotel chain that is featured in countless rap songs: the Holiday Inn. I was the “gal Friday” in the catering and corporate sales department of the Holiday Inn right next to the last stop (Riverside) on a branch of Boston’s public transportation, the T. It was a pretty clutch location—walking distance to the T, so easy access to Boston. Late one summer afternoon, I cut out of work a few hours early and Suzanne and I headed into Boston in search of cocktails. Suzanne drove to the T station in Newton (next to my place of employment), parked her mom’s beautiful Saab (which had become Suzanne’s recently), and met up with me on the train platform, and soon we were Boston-bound. Our big plan was to walk around Newbury Street and shop, then get some drinks with dinner. Suz and I had our fake IDs, were dressed up, and had already carefully planned how we’d order our cocktails. At the appointed time, we’d casually say to the waiter, “Margarita on the rocks with salt,” and this blasé recitation would show that we were obviously over twenty-one. We knew the lingo! We knew exactly how we liked our margaritas—the waiter would know that this wasn’t our first time at the rodeo. We were over-twenty-one gals just having dinner after a day’s work.

As the late afternoon sun bounced off the expensive cars parked along Newbury Street, Suzanne and I walked down the brick sidewalks and thought about how we could use adult lingo to get cocktails into our eighteen-year-old mouths.

“Where should we eat? I mean, which restaurant do you think will have a cool enough waiter to either—one—not card us—two—card us and not know that our IDs are fake, or—three—card us, know our IDs are fake, but serve us anyway because we’re cute blondes?” Suzanne asked.
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I wasn’t totally sure. We needed a restaurant where the food would be good even if, worst-case scenario, we were forced to simply eat dinner and drink water or soda. We settled on Charley’s, a standard American-fare restaurant with enough background noise that even if our IDs got us in trouble, it wouldn’t be that much of a spectacle. We were seated quickly, and soon a handsome young waiter was introducing himself and reciting the specials. As he talked, I fidgeted and picked at my cuticles, nervous about the impending launch of Operation: Drink Alcohol in Public.

“Can I start you ladies off with some drinks?” the hottie waiter inquired.

“Yeah, I’ll have a margarita on the rocks with salt,” Suzanne ordered casually, just as we had discussed.

“Me, too, I guess . . . yeah . . . I always like that whenever I go out . . . which is a lot . . . so yeah, same thing for me—margarita on the rocks with salt.” I overdosed on blasé attitude.

“Great—I’ll be right back with those drinks and to take your food order.” He walked away. Suzanne and I stared across the table at each other, stunned at the miracle that had just unfolded before our very (blue) eyes. We were about to be throwing back some drinks right there in Charley’s, right in public, like real twenty-one-year-olds. I repressed my desire to grin from ear to ear and tried to blankly stare out the window while waiting for a margarita, like a real twenty-one-year-old would.

The margaritas arrived, and Suzanne and I quietly squealed and grinned at each other, like twenty-one-year-olds never would. The food selection was where we ran into trouble. Not trouble with the restaurant or the waiter. Trouble like when indigestion becomes panic and you need to find the nearest bathroom. What was that recipe for disaster? Margaritas on the rocks with salt followed by chicken Caesar salads. We were so focused on ordering our drinks in a relaxed, nonchalant way that we gave no thought as to what food might go well with margaritas. It certainly wasn’t chicken Caesar salad, yet that’s what we both ordered.
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If something was going to expose us for what we were—eighteen-year-olds who could barely contain our glee at drinking tasty cocktails in a public restaurant instead of our usual skunked beer in the woods or the back- seat of a hatchback—our ill-conceived food-drink combo should have. The waiter humored us, though, and delivered our matching chicken Caesar salads as we casually sipped on our matching margaritas on the rocks with salt.

“How friggin’ cool is this?” I whispered to Suzanne as we chomped on our salads.

“I know! We’re adults! Here we go! Just having some drinks, having some food. No big deal,” she agreed.

“Just spaghetti and beer,” I marveled. “Spaghetti and Beer” was a theory that my brunette pal (with gorgeous caramel highlights) Alexa and I had developed early on in high school. Back in those days of desperate partying (in the form of drinking Zima or Bud Ice in a deserted Christmas tree farm during the dead of winter), we’d fantasize about what it must be like to be an adult. To have beer or wine or liquor in your home and drink it whenever you want. It struck us as such a magical and exciting idea, having alcohol with your dinner—specifically spaghetti and beer. Yes, when we were sixteen years old, the pairing of spaghetti and beer seemed like the pinnacle of adulthood and delicacy. And here were Suzanne and I, enjoying proverbial spaghetti and beer.

After we finished our oddly late to be lunch/early to be dinner meal, Suz and I hopped on the T back out to Newton, where Suzanne’s car was in the parking lot next to the Holiday Inn. It didn’t occur to us to keep drinking in Boston—we were both so excited we’d been served once that we didn’t want to jinx it, so we headed back to the suburbs. The T ride back out to Newton is a long one (about an hour), so Suzanne and I had plenty of time sitting on the train to chat and marvel at our good fortune. It was then that I began to feel sharp pains in my stomach. My stomach was rumbling, and it wasn’t a rumble of hunger—it was a toxic rumble that portends a wicked case of diarrhea.

“Woodland is next, then last stop is Riverside,” the announcements blared overhead as my stomach turned.

“Whoa, Suz . . . my stomach feels weird. Does yours feel weird?”

“Nope—I feel fine. Are you OK?” Suzanne asked.

“I think that something didn’t quite agree with me. Oww . . . my stomach hurts,” I explained as I tried to avoid doubling over. I managed to keep it together until the train pulled into the station at Riverside. Now we had to walk out of the station and across the giant parking lot to Suzanne’s car. But with every moment, the pain increased and the pressure on my excretory organs doubled.

“Whoa, Suz . . . whoa . . . I’m not sure if I can walk,” I explained as I carefully stepped out of the T train and onto the platform. “Hold on . . . I may need to go slow.” My churning stomach had turned into an urge to move the bowels (to put it politely), but from the feel of it, this wouldn’t be a solid passing.

“Fucking roughage and alcohol . . . oh my God,” I muttered as Suzanne and I slowly walked toward her car. The pressure was escalating, and a liquid shit was knock, knock, knocking on my asshole, just like the song that Guns N’ Roses covered better than anybody else.

“Suz! I’m afraid I’m going to shit my pants!” I exclaimed. This was bad. Sweet Suzanne couldn’t help but laugh, but her laughter would make me laugh, which could spell disaster, I feared. We were making progress, though—almost at her car.

“Don’t laugh! Please! I’m sorry! I’m just afraid . . . I can’t control—” I was sweating profusely now. I was wearing a favorite bebe skirt and a miniscule thong as I climbed into Suzanne’s mother’s Saab. The seats were leather, but not “leather” like my father’s station wagon. Real leather. There was a tag and everything to prove it. And only a tiny piece of fabric separated a powerful spray of liquid feces from this leather seat.

“Drive to the Holiday Inn!” I commanded.

“It’s that bad?” Suzanne marveled.

“Back entrance!” I bellowed. I sat in the passenger’s seat, crossed my legs, and then wrapped one calf and foot around the other, like that move that is normally done in a yoga class, not when you’re trying to lock up your digestive track. Suzanne couldn’t help but laugh as I tensed my body, closed my eyes, and encouraged her to “step on it.” Because of my job at the Holiday Inn, I knew exactly where the restrooms were located, and the back door would be our best bet. I wanted to avoid the front entryway, where I’d potentially run into a crowd of guests or, worse, coworkers. If I hightailed it in the back door, I could bolt into the bathroom in time to avoid releasing diarrhea in my pants (err, skirt). Things were dire.

Suzanne efficiently steered the small car past the Holiday Inn’s front entrance, down the side driveway, and beneath the parking area, coming to a stop at the back entrance. I opened the car before she had even come to a complete stop and started walking forward. The Holiday Inn’s back entrance opened based on a motion sensor mounted above the door, so I stuck my hand up like a brainwashed constituent showing undying dedication to a psychotic leader and the doors opened immediately. I didn’t even break my stride. I kept on moving down the long corridor of patterned carpet. I was holding my sphincter shut by sheer force of will, and I was so close. But you know when you’re this close and everything falls apart because you’re so close? I pushed open the public restroom door. In just a few more steps, I’d be inside the dinky walls of the bathroom stall and this margarita-on-the-rocks-with-salt-and-chicken-Caesar-salad nightmare would be over.

“Holy shiiiiiit!” I whispered as I hiked up my bebe skirt and the diarrhea flood commenced. My thong was an innocent bystander in the melee, but I managed to get my rump on the toilet and release the liquid deuce. I was breathing hard—deep breaths and heaving sighs of relief—when I heard the bathroom door open a crack. I peeked through the gap between the bathroom stall door and the walls, and my watery eyes made out a sliver of Suzanne’s platinum dome.

“Remind me
never
to order a margarita with a Caesar salad ever again.” I laughed.

“Haha, oh my goodness, Lenny,
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are you OK?” Suzanne asked, adding, “Don’t worry—nothing got on the seat in the car, everything’s fine, and we don’t have to tell anybody about this.”

“Oh, I’m not keeping this one a secret. That was insanity!” I said. Timidly, I emerged from the bathroom stall. “Suz—I’m so sorry I barked at you. I just didn’t want to get diarrhea on your mom’s leather seats.”

“Don’t worry about it! I’m just glad that we made it the Holiday Inn bathroom in time!” Suzanne smiled. We hugged and laughed. Almost every time we get together, Suzanne and I get ourselves into a ridiculous situation much like that unforgettable blondetourage of Romy and Michele.

I hope that you never find yourself on the verge of a diarrhea disaster resulting from an ill-conceived dinner-and-drinks pairing, but if you do, I pray that you are in the company of a steadfast, trusted blonde bestie like my BFF, Suzanne. A blonde best friend who will explore the world of fake IDs with you, then calmly drive your diarrhea-filled carcass to the nearest toilet as you sweat, yell, and hyperventilate? Now that’s a blondetourage.

CHAPTER 17

RULE:
Expect Blonde-vs.-Brunette Tension

I
n the 1980s, Pantene peddled shampoo by introducing the now legendary tagline “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” In that first commercial, a brunette beauty (Kelly LeBrock) uttered that famous mantra, but it’s the blonde community who should adopt this phrase as its siren call. You might be the sweetest, warmest gal on the block, but if you have a head of gorgeous, platinum locks, you might someday experience brunette-vs.-blonde tension. Let’s set off, dear reader, on an exploration of this dynamic throughout pop culture and develop a few strategies for how to dissolve this tension. This rivalry isn’t limited to brunettes, though, so perhaps I’ll broaden this warning and say that you should brace yourself for tension with other ladies. Being in possession of great hair and self-confidence has a way of drawing the hatred of others. Don’t believe me? As that legendary Pantene commercial used to close with, “You’ll see.”

One early instance of blonde-on-brunette drama within pop culture is found in the immortal
Archie
comic strip (founded in 1946). Redheaded male protagonist Archie spent eons vacillating between the affections of Betty, the impoverished, sweet blonde, and Veronica, the calculating, savvy brunette whose family was filthy rich. (They re-created a mall in her home, fer crissake!) This blonde-brunette tug-of-war over a guy is certainly believable, and it provided fodder for
Archie
comic book story lines for years. What is not believable is that two hot ladies would waste so much time brawling over such an indecisive fire crotch.

Competition between blondes and brunettes isn’t limited to cartoons or works of fiction—it can and does happen in the real world. Another example of blonde-vs.-brunette tension comes from a “reality” that is harsher than most: Hollywood. If you think it’s hard to get over a breakup in the real world of the average American, try doing it when your ex’s face is plastered all over gossip magazines. Recovering from heartbreak in Tinseltown sounds positively nightmarish and practically impossible. In 1955, pale, blonde, Texas-born Debbie Reynolds, America’s sweetheart, married handsome (and swarthy) singer and actor Eddie Fisher.
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The couple had two children (Carrie and Todd) and were close friends with actress Elizabeth Taylor and her then-husband, producer Mike Todd. In 1958, Mike Todd died tragically in a plane crash, and soon Eddie Fisher and raven-haired beauty Elizabeth Taylor began having an affair, unbeknownst to Debbie Reynolds. This now legendary Hollywood scandal unfolded beneath the glare of the cameras, as Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher eventually divorced and he married Elizabeth Taylor. In the aftermath of that messy break-up, Debbie Reynolds emerged looking like a bit of a dolt and Elizabeth Taylor was a dark-haired, violet-eyed, savvy sexpot who got whatever she wanted. Score one for the tally of blondes as clueless simpletons.

A somewhat similar scenario played out in Hollywood about fifty years later between Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt, and Angelina Jolie. Jennifer Aniston is one of America’s sweethearts, and while I wouldn’t necessarily classify her as a true blonde, she certainly has enough sun-kissed highlights to be a tertiary member of the club. Aniston was married to actor Brad Pitt for almost five years, until he filmed
Mr. & Mrs. Smith
with brunette sexpot Angelina Jolie. Soon after filming wrapped, Aniston filed for divorce from Pitt, and promptly thereafter, Pitt and Jolie formed a family unit. The couple later adopted children and Jolie gave birth to a few of their own. The Jolie-Aniston drama consumed gossip magazine headlines and inaccurately painted Jennifer Aniston as a boring girl-next-door, while Angelina was an exotic temptress with long dark locks, impossibly pouty lips, and a whole lot of badass tattoos. America loves a good reality-based “catfight,” and some classless retail stores were even selling “Team Aniston” and “Team Jolie” T-shirts as this human drama played out.

Another time when blonde-on-brunette tension played out in the public eye occurred during the 1994 Winter Olympics in Lillehammer. Tonya Harding was a muscular, brassy blonde figure skater with an impressive résumé and unprecedented triple axel skills. Nancy Kerrigan was a lithe, graceful brunette figure skater who already had an Olympic bronze in her pocket as she approached the 1994 pre-Olympic events. While she was at the 1994 U.S. Figure Skating Championships in Detroit, Nancy Kerrigan was attacked by a man who was hired by Tonya Harding’s ex-husband and her bodyguard. The injuries that Kerrigan sustained during that attack were bad enough that she was unable to compete in the national championship, which Tonya Harding subsequently won. Both women were selected for the 1994 Olympic team, and their every movement was watched with great curiosity and anticipation throughout their stay in Lillehammer. The contrast was striking: Dark-haired Kerrigan’s costumes were minimalist, classic, and mostly white or gold, while Harding’s blonde hair and makeup were severe, and her costumes were bold, sequined, and gaudy. The press loved capturing Kerrigan and Harding in photographs (on the rare occasion when they shared the ice for practice sessions), showcasing the tacky blonde next to the classy brunette.

In the cinema, the blonde-vs.-brunette dynamic is given pitch-perfect portrayal in the contrast between the two leading women of
Grease
: golden-haired perpetual naïf Sandy and brash, ballsy brunette Rizzo. Rizzo insults Sandy in song and dialogue, singing, “Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee / Lousy with virginity / Won’t go to bed ’til I’m legally wed,” then mocking Sandy’s unwillingness to smoke, drink, or rat her hair.
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Childlike Sandy doesn’t quite get it, asking Rizzo at the end of the song, “Are you making fun of me, Riz?” At the end of
Grease
, Sandy finally gets the guy by letting her hair be wild and voluminous (guys can’t resist that volume), smoking, and wearing tight black clothes. Heck of a lesson for young girls—you want a guy to like you? Just stop being yourself, smoke cigarettes, and dress like a member of a motorcycle gang whose clothes were accidentally put in the dryer.
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In the 2001 film
Legally Blonde
, the platinum protagonist Elle Woods (Reese Witherspoon) is portrayed as a materialistic sorority party girl. Within the first ten minutes of the film, she gets dumped by her boyfriend, Warner Huntington III (Matthew Davis), because he is law school bound and his days of frivolous college antics are over. Warner says that he needs to get serious and grow up, and he doesn’t picture blonde, fun Elle in that adult phase of his life. Elle is a lot smarter than she seems, though, and she manages to win admission to Harvard Law School along with Warner and, once there, attempts to win him back. Warner begins dating a Harvard peer of the more typical law school variety (serious, dry, and academic): a frumpy brunette named Vivian Kensington (Selma Blair). Elle may be naïve and clueless, but she’s charming, has a heart of gold, and wins friends everywhere she goes. Before Elle finally realizes that Warner isn’t worth her time, she and limp-haired brunette Vivian are rivals for his affection, setting up a classic blonde-vs.-brunette tension. Elle is bubbly, energetic, and willing to wear a Playboy Bunny costume to a Halloween party (that is a setup to make her look stupid), while Vivian is condescending, patronizing, and, worst of all, brunette.
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Television has given us a multitude of classic blonde-vs.-brunette pairings. In NBC’s show
30 Rock
, unlucky-in-love, awkward brunette Liz Lemon (hilarious everywoman Tina Fey) is the centerpiece of the show because viewers can identify with her. The story lines of each episode usually focus on steady Liz and the crazy cast of characters who orbit around her at the comedy-variety show
The Girlie Show
(
TGS
). Jenna Maroney (gorgeous, amazingly coiffed Jane Krakowski) is the vain, vapid actress who possesses a head of beautiful blonde curls and not a clue. Their relationship toggles between blonde-against-brunette and blonde-in-collaboration-with-brunette, with Liz serving as Jenna’s sounding board and Jenna acting as a fun, crazy pal to Liz. One episode of
30 Rock
explored their unlikely friendship as a story line, with Liz seeking out more like-minded brunette friends and Jenna making friends with equally vapid, self-obsessed ladies. At the close of the episode, Liz and Jenna came together, secure in the knowledge that opposites attract and their rivalry-based friendship is exactly what each woman needs.

Going back into the television archives,
Three’s Company
explored the blonde-brunette dynamic with a blonde and a brunette as two of the three roommates in a San Diego beach bungalow. Suzanne Somers has built a career on playing ditzy blondes (and peddling Thighmasters). Chrissy Snow, her character on
Three’s Company
, was an executive assistant from Fresno, California, whose idiocy was the linchpin of many jokes and setups. Whip-smart brunette Janet Wood (Joyce DeWitt) was a florist and a good straight man for the antics of Jack Tripper (the late, great John Ritter) and the stupidity of blonde Chrissy. The archetype of “dumb blonde” was nonnegotiable on
Three’s Company
, as we saw when Somers quit the show (due to a salary dispute) and was promptly replaced by another blonde actress (Jenilee Harrison) who played Cindy Snow, Chrissy’s country cousin. Cindy moved into the San Diego apartment with Janet and Jack, and not only was she a dumb blonde, she was also clumsy! What a multifaceted character! Cindy fulfilled the role of the token, clueless blonde for two seasons and to such great effect that the show received criticism from viewers for its one-note, disparaging characterization of blondes. During the final three seasons of
Three’s Company
, Cindy was replaced by a new blonde roommate, Terri Alden (Priscilla Barnes), who the writers deliberately crafted as a smart nurse. Through all of these stereotypes-as-characters, the balance of the zany blonde and the steady brunette was a constant presence in
Three’s Company
. During season six, brunette Janet even tested out life as a blonde, wearing a blonde wig to boost her confidence. It’s obvious which hair color the writers associated with sexuality and confidence.

In the same era as
Three’s Company
, the American public was introduced to
Charlie’s Angels
with its original cast of Farrah Fawcett, Jaclyn Smith, and Kate Jackson. It’s worth noting that Farrah Fawcett was only a full-time cast member of
Charlie’s Angels
for one season,
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but she’s the most legendary of the Angels (even including the
Charlie’s Angels
franchise reboot during the ’90s). Her soft, layered blonde hair inspired a million hairdos, and her hard nipples poking out from a red bathing suit in that legendary poster inspired even more hard-ons.
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The two brunette angels were certainly famous and celebrated, but blonde Farrah garnered the most attention in that trio.

Another classic television portrayal of blonde-on-brunette tension was found in ABC’s hit prime-time soap opera
Dynasty
. Alexis Carrington vs. Krystle Carrington was a blonde-brunette rivalry for the ages. Alexis (Joan Collins) was the brunette first wife of oil tycoon and silver fox Blake Carrington (John Forsythe). Krystle (Linda Evans) was the ashy blonde second wife, and a love of shoulder pads and gaudy jewelry was the two wives’ only common ground. The Nielsen ratings for
Dynasty
were flat during its first season (1981), but in season two, when brunette first wife Alexis arrived and initiated the blonde-vs.-brunette tension between wives, the ratings skyrocketed. The American TV-watching public is, sadly, always interested in a good brawl. And brawl they did—Alexis and Krystle engaged in some unforgettable hair-pulling fights, oftentimes in pools. They just don’t make television like that anymore. (Well, they do, but it’s not character acting anymore—now it’s depressing reality.)

Around the time that my older sisters were watching
Dynasty
, I was inhaling episodes of
Punky Brewster
like they were fluffernutter sandwiches (something completely verboten in our house so I’d shamelessly chow them at friends’ houses
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). On this show, Margaux Kramer was the uppity blonde “friend” (but more of a prototypical frenemy) who wore a lot of pale pink clothing and was completely out of touch with dark-haired Cherie and Punky. Margaux was the focus of an entire episode when the Kramer family—
gasp
—lost their money and had to move out of their palatial home. Life is so hard! Brunette Punky was charming and somehow relatable, despite the fact that she was a runaway orphan whose bed was a wheelbarrow. The important takeaways from
Punky Brewster
are that blondes are icy, brunettes are scrappy, and you should never hide in an abandoned refrigerator during a game of hide-and-seek. (I’m looking at you, Cherie!)

In somewhat more recent television, we saw some great blonde characterizations in two Aaron Spelling–produced shows,
90210
and
Melrose Place
, both on Fox. Perhaps Aaron Spelling was inspired by the blondes who were present in his personal life: wife, Candy (consistently blonde); daughter, Tori (on-again, off-again blonde); and even son, Randy (occasional frosted tips—we all made mistakes in the ’90s!). In the original
Beverly Hills, 90210
, blondes Kelly Taylor (Jennie Garth) and Donna Martin (Tori Spelling) were Beverly Hills kids and already best friends when the brown-haired Walsh twins transferred to West Beverly High School. Of course brown-haired Brenda was the down-to-earth girl from a stable family comprised entirely of sensible brunettes. Kelly came from a semi- unstable home (of blonde alcoholics!) and had a nose job during high school, fulfilling the ol’ “blondes are vain” stereotype. At least the character of Kelly Taylor wasn’t completely detrimental to the reputation of blondes, unlike Donna “Donna Martin Graduates!” Martin. Donna Martin was the queen of bad implants and brown lipstick, and she certainly didn’t do much for the blonde cause.