The New Rules for Blondes (3 page)

“Can you please describe exactly what happened, as best as you can rememba?” asked a young cop with a notepad. I carefully recounted the night’s events, and Suzanne assisted: nice dinner, walking down Newbury Street, then the next thing I know I’m chasing some crazy teen on a bike and screaming swears, then I’m punching him, then I’m jumping to clear the bike, then we’re on foot, then my bag is in the bushes and he’s gone.

“Wait, the perpetrayta didn’t get away with ya packetbook? You have ya packetbook now?” the cop inquired. It struck me that
this
is exactly how things get confused at crime scenes. What seems so obvious and clear to the witnesses can actually translate as quite confusing and illogical when explained. Of course I knew that I chased down the guy and gotten my bag back—Suzanne, the Indian couple, and some lazy valets had witnessed the whole thing! Said forty-five-dollar Gap purse was dangling from my wrist! But the police officers had no knowledge of this—they only saw two frightened and keyed-up, perfectly coiffed young ladies telling a very unlikely sounding story, in tandem. It also struck me that the cop referred to my purse as my “pocketbook,” and I wondered what other Massachusetts-isms he had up his sleeve.
I bet that he refers to sprinkles as “jimmies” and calls Stop & Shop Supermarket “the Stoppie,” and when he visits towns on the south shore of Massachusetts, he calls it “going down the shore,”
I thought.

His beautiful accent kept flowing: “So the perpetrayta did not get away with ya purse, but did he remove anything from it?”

“No—everything is in here,” I responded.

“So, just to be showa I fully understaaand, ya purse was taken from you, but you chased down the assailant and managed to retrieve ya purse, then he fled west on Newbury Street toward Mass Ave?”

“Yes, exactly,” I said.

“Huh.” The cop seemed bewildered and delighted. “You must got some bruthas at home, right? You got a lotta hustle in ya.”

“Ha—thanks. No brothers, actually. You just never know how you’ll react to a situation like that. And I guess I’m tougher than I look,” I conceded.

And you’re tougher than you look, too, my friend (unless Dog the Bounty Hunter is reading this book, then no, you are exactly as tough as you look). There are many ways to “run in heels,” and they don’t all involve slamming your entire body weight into the ball of your foot while screaming obscenities. You can metaphorically “run in heels” by doing something strong and bold for you. By stopping the guy at Dunkin’ Donuts who is deliberately ignorant of how the line works and saying, “Yeah, I’m next in line—the end of the line is back there. Thanks!” By driving decisively and defensively. By speaking with authority and confidence. The world will never have enough gutsy women—blonde or not. So follow in the footsteps of a savvy, gutsy, confident blonde Kelly Ripa and don’t be afraid to run in heels.

CHAPTER 3

RULE:
Crank Up the Pro-Blonde Anthems

A
ll people have bad days now and then—even dope blondes. On days like those, it’s good to crank up some pro-blonde anthems to help pull you out of your funk. Or feel free to wallow in it and only pull yourself out when you feel completely ready. If there’s one thing I hate, it is forced, inauthentic cheeriness. So go ahead and marinate on whatever has got you down for as long as you need, then formulate a plan to move on and bounce back. I recommend cranking up some sweet tunes and either going for a run or dancing around. Here’s an assortment of my favorite pro-platinum jams:

• Anything by Blondie. A hard-rocking band led by a gorgeous platinum-blonde ball-breaker (Debbie Harry) with an amazing voice and a mean smirk.
  
• “As a Blonde” by Selena Gomez. I feel a special kinship with Selena Gomez since we share the same first name. The similarities end there, though, as Selena Gomez is a dark-haired tiny singer whose longest relationship was with a guy who I could probably take down in a fistfight.
  
• “Feelin’ Love” by Paula Cole. A hugely underrated song, this gemstone appeared on the soundtrack of the film
  City of Angels
  (1998). The line “You make me feel like I want to be a dumb blonde in a centerfold, the girl next door” re- inforces a blonde stereotype, but I’ll give it to her. This song’s too hot to ignore.
  
• “Blonde Over Blue” by Billy Joel. Admittedly, this song isn’t one of his best, but it’s about blondes (specifically Joel’s ex-wife Christie Brinkley) and it has a unique sound.
  
• “Bed of Roses” by Bon Jovi. In this beautiful ballad, JBJ sings, “Some blonde gave me nightmares, I think that she’s still in my bed.” Hell yeah, blonde shout-out and a song about blondes getting laid!
  
• “What’s Up?” by 4 Non Blondes. You couldn’t live through 1993 and 1994 without hearing this song a lot. “What’s Up?” is a catchy, belt-it-out tune, and it catapulted the San Francisco–based quartet 4 Non Blondes to stardom. It might seem counterintuitive for me to embrace a band whose existence is predicated upon their nonblondeness, but I put them on here in the way that one might retweet an insult on Twitter. I embrace 4 Non Blondes as a move to reclaim power.
  
• “Suicide Blonde” by INXS. I love the music of INXS, from “Need You Tonight” and “New Sensation” all the way through “Elegantly Wasted.” But “Suicide Blonde” is something special.
  
• Anything by Madonna. Nobody is more of a balls-out, brassy, no-bullshit blonde than the Detroit native with a British accent, Madonna Louise Ciccone, a.k.a. Madonna. Her career has spanned decades, and she’s a cornucopia of talent: dancer, singer, filmmaker, writer, director, mother, and more. Blondes should love her the most, though, for her Blond Ambition World Tour in 1990.
  
• “Platinum Blonde Life” by No Doubt. This track was on No Doubt’s phenomenal 2001 album,
  Rock Steady
  , which also featured the hit single “Hella Good” and the majorly underrated ditty “Making Out.” “Platinum Blonde Life” is a song about wanting the world to go away—not answering the door, just rolling over in bed.
  
• “Joey” by Concrete Blonde. It’s like an intervention set to music, and never has the story of an alcoholic named Joey sounded so sexy. This song has nothing to do with being blonde—it just rules.
  
• “Tired of Being Blonde” by Carly Simon. This song addresses the assumptions inherent to blondeness. Carly Simon knows what it’s like—she’s a gorgeous blonde. The video features some classic 1980s footage of blondes and Simon in an assortment of colored wigs. When you’re not feeling the pro-blonde anthems or you’ve heard a few too many blonde jokes, crank up “Tired of Being Blonde” for a change of pace.
  

CHAPTER 4

RULE:
Don’t Date a Guy or Gal Who Is as Hair-Obsessed as You Are

W
hen it comes to gorgeous locks in the context of a romantic relationship, the
Highlander
rule applies: There can be only one (person in a relationship who has phenomenal hair). If both people in a relationship are hair-obsessed, one person will eventually feel inferior about his or her hair and be unhappy. Two people whose identities hinge upon their personal possession of gorgeous locks coming together for a romantic union is a recipe for disaster. It’s akin to two hugely insecure actors dating while on set. You might think that this arrangement would be ideal—they have the same experiences, concerns, career issues—but it’s ultimately toxic. Competitiveness, insecurity, and paranoia can crop up when both parties place so much importance on the same exact quality. Catastrophes can occur: Fuses can be blown (if both partners are blow-drying simultaneously), curling irons can be worn out (if both partners possess long, luxurious locks), conditioner can run out (if both partners have thick hair with natural curls and thus require regular conditioning)—it can get
that
bad.

That is why, dear reader,
you
should have good hair, but your partner should not. You must wear the pants in the relationship by wearing the overhead dryer at the salon every four to six weeks. I’m not suggesting that you swallow your hair pride and date a guy who has a cascade of what resembles pubes cresting off his crown. Rather, I’m suggesting that you date a guy who doesn’t care about his hair
that much
—there’s a difference.

A guy who is hair-obsessed is a modern-day Narcissus. In case you skipped fourth grade, let’s review the myth of Narcissus: Before it was a perfume or a song by Alanis Morissette or a club beneath the Citgo sign in Boston, Narcissus was a hunter in Greek mythology. He was extremely proud, egotistical, and disdainful of those who loved him. That last trait sounds more like a Groucho Marx phenomenon (the ol’ “I don’t care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members”) more than narcissism, but let’s not split hairs.
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A Greek goddess named Nemesis (with a name like that, how did the girl make any friends?) assessed Narcissus’s character flaw and attracted him to a pool, where Narcissus laid eyes upon his reflection for the first time. Much like a young starlet newly introduced to celebrity and cocaine, Narcissus was immediately hooked. He didn’t understand that he was simply staring at a reflection—an image—and he fell in love with the creature staring back at him. (Apparently mirrors weren’t big during that era—think of it as the opposite of the 1970s.) Narcissus was unable to stop staring at this beautiful creature, so he never moved and simply died there on the water’s edge. Presumably Narcissus starved to death because he couldn’t be bothered to eat—his commonalities with young starlets just keep on coming! In present-day society, a guy who worships his own hair probably won’t starve to death while staring at his reflection, but he might take off for the weekend and pack your blow-dryer and forget to tell you.
8
Or he might use the last of the mousse and forget to replenish.
9
Heed my warnings, dear reader: Never date a guy who is as hair-obsessed as you are.

There is a lone exception to this rule and, ironically, it’s a man who hails from a state inextricably linked to the overuse of hair products: New Jersey native Jon Bon Jovi. Yes, JBJ is the exception to my rule, and from my extensive research I can confirm that he is the lone anomaly. Mr. Bon Jovi’s hair is celebrated around the world, almost as much as his music. He’s never had a hair failure, but his band has released such musical bombs as “Have a Nice Day,” “Someday I’ll Be Saturday Night,” and “I Love This Town.” Bon Jovi’s music often explores themes of persistence and hard work (“Keep the Faith,” “Wanted Dead or Alive,” “Blaze of Glory”), and his consistently amazing hair has been putting in hard work since 1984, when Bon Jovi burst on the rock music scene (or, more accurately, since 1962, when Jon was born). It’s evolved over the years, but JBJ’s hair has always been voluminous, well styled, and on-trend. Has this crown of amazing hair gone to Jon’s head, though?
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Has it manifested in narcissism, toxic bad-boy behavior, and a trail of tears and blown fuses? It has not. Mr. Bon Jovi has been happily married to his hometown sweetheart, Dorothea Hurley, for more than twenty years, and they have four children together. Normally I think that marrying your hometown sweetheart is the most podunk, unimaginative thing you can do, but not in this case. JBJ has a sweet head of hair and legions of fans around the world, and is completely committed to his equally well-coiffed (though brunette) wife. It’s admirable behavior and completely unexpected from a guy with hair that good.

But let’s not get too caught up in this sole exception. A rule is a rule because 99 percent of the time it applies, so let’s not let JBJ’s great hair and romantic commitment distract us from the rule at hand: Don’t date a guy who is as hair-obsessed as you are. I became intimately familiar with this rule back in late 2009, when I developed a kind of joke crush on
American Idol
contestant, Broadway star (
Rock of Ages
,
The Wedding Singer
), and alleged ladies’ man Constantine Maroulis. He is a man of Greek descent (by way of New Jersey) with long, curly brown hair; a bump in his chin that makes it resemble a tiny bum on his lower face; and a love of making the rock-and-roll hand gesture (often confused with the University of Texas’s “hook ’em, Horns” and the sign of the devil). He’s supposedly a lothario in the musical theater world. Yes, that’s what drew me IN. This is consistent with my type—the rest of the world’s deal breakers are my aphrodisiacs. My preferred “type” is a guy who is bit overweight and hairy, and drives a truck. Added bonus if he is estranged from his parents, has a Boston accent and tattoos, and possesses a wicked temper that he justifies based on his heritage (whether they were Irish or Italian or whatever, everyone thinks his ancestors were the most hotheaded).

Even though Constantine was much thinner than my normal type, I gave him a shot anyway. At least he was hairy enough, and that sweet head of brown curls called to me, as if to say, “We can talk about conditioning and overconditioning for hours.” He appealed to me and drew me in like a pile of positively charged metal shavings to his hulking negative man magnet. So in August 2009, I dragged my fantastic fellow comedienne and gorgeous redheaded friend Heidi to the Broadway show
Rock of Ages
to enjoy delightful power ballads and stalk my D-list joke crush.
Rock of Ages
is a Broadway show that is a mash-up of music by Journey, Night Ranger, Styx, REO Speedwagon, Pat Benatar, Twisted Sister, Poison, Asia, Whitesnake, and more, all connected via a thin story line about following your dreams and getting the girl. In other words, it’s the most important piece of theater to ever grace the Great White Way. As my luck would have it, that first night I saw
Rock of Ages
was a night when Constantine’s understudy was performing, and my love/hate crush was not. I was pretty disappointed, but the show was awesome nonetheless and definitely “took me high enough,” to quote Damn Yankees’ masterpiece “High Enough.” And back in the innocent days of summer 2009, I wasn’t in
that
deep.

About six months later, I began following Constantine on Twitter (twitter.com/ConstantineM) and falling prey to what every celebrity Twitter follower experiences: the deluded sense that you
really
know this person via their 140-character proclamations. Constantine’s tweets cracked me up because they were brimming with arrogance, masturbatory self-promotion, and deluded self-importance. Most of his tweets were full of faux humility and excitement but were really just bragging notes. Thanks to Twitter, I got to know both Connie Maroulis and his nutty fan base. His fans are a loyal bunch whose love for Constantine can only be matched by their love of misspelling “rock” as “rawk.” I didn’t think it was possible, but his fans seem to be more loyal and crazed than Clay Aiken’s “Claymates.” Constantine’s fan base seems to consist mainly of mothers aged forty-plus hailing from New Jersey, which is, not coincidentally, Constantine’s home state. They have Twitter handles such as AshWantsToRock and HottieMama, and they tweet things like “Going to Rock of Ages for the 10th time tonight! Can’t wait to RAWK!” One Constantine fan’s Twitter profile might read: Stay at home Mom of 2 boys and a dog. Constantine’s my #1 guy!”
11
The gals of Constantine’s Twitter posse are not especially good-looking or chill with their affections for Constantine. I figured,
Easy competition.
And thus, I began sliding down the slippery slope of joke stalking a celebrity who you somehow simultaneously find attractive and repellant. (We all know how that old song goes, right? Right? Is there anybody out there who understands this bizarre phenomenon? Just me?)

I thought to myself,
His fans are such weirdos, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel if I showed up at one of his shows and tried to lure him in. It would be fun to lure in a legendary womanizer and then eat him alive, black widow style. That would teach him a lesson he’d never forget. Plus, if nothing else, it’s a great story—just great material.

And so my Constantine crush developed as a funny, ironic joke—I’d lure him in, make him fall hopelessly in love with me, then walk away with just a funny story of how I wooed a D-list celebrity, and isn’t that (somehow) funny. It would be a spite relationship, really. The romantic version of how I used to collect New Kids on the Block trading cards as a kid or how I currently listen to Nickelback when I work out. It’s just something that I love to hate—it nauseates me, yet I love it. Plus, romancing a D-list celebrity would make great cocktail banter.

I could see it now. I’d be at a comedian cocktail party somewhere in Brooklyn—probably on a filthy rooftop in Bushwick. I’d be dressed in a black sheath and red pumps, with my voluminous locks forming a halo of blonde perfection,
12
when the subject of heartless romantic manipulation would come up, as it so often does in polite company (right?).

“You guys have
got
to hear Selena’s story about wooing a D-list celebrity and then walking away and ruining him,” Heidi would insist to the assembled literary and comedic heavyweights. “Come on, Selena, tell them the story!” she would press me as I cranked a cocktail straw around my dirty vodka martini, like a tiny boat engine in a miniature pond made of delicious brackish booze.

“Oh, it’s silly—nobody knows who Constantine Maroulis is—”

“Constantine Maroulis!? From
American Idol
and
Rock of Ages
!” my gay friend would exclaim, rattling off Mr. Maroulis’s résumé for the edification of the party.

“Oh, it was silly,” I’d respond, pretending to be bashful and unimpressed with my own achievement but secretly hoping they’d pry it out of me because
this
is exactly why I had done it. This exact moment of cocktail chitchat. This moment, on the dot right here, as Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön would say.
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And thankfully, the assembled people would push me, so I’d share the funny story.

“Ha—so yeah, so I lured him in with my amazing hair and we hooked up, then I never called him again. It was just a funny thing. Just for fun. What an idiot, right? Fuck him!” I’d laugh.

“You think that
he
is losing sleep over
you
?” my no-bullshit, uncouth dude friend would ask. “I mean, that’s every dude’s dream! Especially every celebrity’s dream! You find a hot groupie and you hook up with her, then it’s like, ‘See you in hell,’ ya know? I’m sure he has a million groupies lined up and doesn’t even remember who you are.” He had a point. And suddenly my hilarious story of negging a D-list celebrity didn’t seem quite so jazzy anymore.

But this flash-forward moment of clarity wasn’t going to stop me. I was going to meet Constantine Maroulis and see his dope hair firsthand, even if it meant traveling from New York City to the wilds of New Jersey.

I carefully read his tweets every day for months, and then in May 2010, I had another outbreak of Constantine Fever.
14
My supportive friend Heidi, who had accompanied me to the understudy
Rock of Ages
night (back in the summer of 2009), was willing to act as my wing woman once again. But this time we had to get serious. I did extensive research online (constantinemaroulis.com, twitter.com/ConstantineM) and learned that on his rare nights off, Connie performs in a live music concert called “A Night at the Rock Show” with a band. It’s a concert during which he plays covers of other people’s songs in a minimally rock-and-roll atmosphere. Almost like an Epcot experience of a rock-and-roll concert, where it’s basically a simulated rock concert environment, but without the actual smoke, coke, drunk people, antics, and mayhem of a rock concert. “A Night at the Rock Show” would appeal to people who visit Las Vegas and see the Paris and Venetian hotels so that they’ll never need to actually travel to France or Italy, God forbid. A sterile, simulated version of the real thing is preferable to them. These people probably love photocopies of photocopies. My interest in spending “A Night at the Rock Show” was twofold: (1) woo a D-list celebrity and (2) witness what people were like in there. I was genuinely curious. What’s the scene like at a show of cover songs played by an
American Idol
reject? Who goes to “A Night at the Rock Show” earnestly and unironically? For me, going to that concert was like visiting Red Lobster or the Olive Garden—hark, who goes there? Who is actually inside this type of place?

So I rented a car, driving the streets of New York City for the first time in my life, and Heidi and I journeyed out to Teaneck, New Jersey, where “A Night at the Rock Show” was happening in a performance venue
slash Mexican restaurant
. Yes, a place where you can enjoy a subpar live show while you munch on soggy burritos. The D-list-ness of it all just kept getting better.