Knowledge November - Day 9 - The original blonde Joke

Why was the blonde frowning at the orange juice carton? Because it said ‘concentrate’.

Har har har. No prizes for guessing that I am a blonde. I am also educated, a published writer, a trained teacher and facilitator, a qualified solo sky-diver and book reviewer who escaped a rape scene by punching the man so hard in the face and I'm considered acceptably intelligent by most people who know me.

Okay, so that’s nothing different to any other blonde out there trying to eradicate the dumb-blonde stereotype, but I’ll add this – it’s all true and I am a *natural* blonde.

No, my hair wasn’t just blonde as a child and now darker as an adult, it is still blonde. It is the colour that my hair-dresser says is the most sought-after shade by ex-blondes or brunette wannabes who go to her salon for highlights, touch-ups or a complete transformation. Unfortunately it is also extremely fine and cannot support even a coloured rinse through it without taking on the hue in a deeply fluorescent fashion (a painfully embarrassing lesson learned when putting through a henna highlight in high school). It does, however, get a few streaks put in to thicken up my hair slightly or I risk having it all fly off in a gust no more powerful than a kitten's hiccough.

In deference to my mantra of ‘One Minute Only,’ my hair is kept short and I avoid wearing make-up as much as Paris avoids a book store. When I do occasionally put on some mascara or lipstick, I either resemble an ageing Emo clown or the first female member of the Clockwork Orange Droogs (but minus the outfit!).

Instead, it is easier for me to play down the blonde hair/blonde brain perception by not placing much emphasis on my appearance. My clothes are neat, clean and allow me to fit into the crowd without looking like a wrinkly fashion victim or a fifty-something librarian. I’m no Katherine Heigl, but I’m no Pig Troll either; just a Low Maintenance Mother with a million more important matters on her mind (Where are my litter tongs? Why does Mark Dorman get paid to write a column? How come all the vegans I know are fat?)

Pamela Anderson is a mere year older than me and is the living embodiment of the Bottle Blonde with eyebrows and lips she has to draw on like a cartoon and painfully bloated breasts that ensure an ever-dwindling income from Tommy Lee's tape sales and the added bonus of being extra protected from impact if she ever finds herself in a car crash. Her career has mostly involved attending events wearing a smile and sequinned dental floss and having extremely poor taste in men (ditto for Paris).

Pammy and Paris reinforce the stereotype of the dumb blonde and encourage those who aren't yet featured on internet pages the world over. These acolytes are often ordinary suburban women who spend an inordinate amount of time on their physical appearance: dried, long yellow hair, ridiculously square manicured nails that clearly show that the hands are seldom used for anything more demanding than a straightening iron and outfits that scream out ‘Desperate Bar Maid’ instead of ‘Destined for the Boardroom.’

If blonde is your natural colour, then all well and good. If you’re paying for it to be your colour, then forget it: you’ll be taken about as seriously as Madonna at the Academy Awards.

Then again, I probably shouldn't have walked into the lounge room on way to getting a glass of water and asked Love Chunks "What's the dumbest question I've ever asked you?"

"Does now count?"