The return of the Uberblonde

“Geeze, you’re so depressed,” said my oldest friend, Lidaphonic Lee. (We’ve known each other since I was twelve.)

“Whattayou expect?” I said. (Lidaphonic is one of the few people with whom I speak only pure Philadelphian.) “My life is completely screwed, ya know? No job, no money, no house, no savings, no fucking future. Who wouldn’t be depressed?”

“What are you gonna do?” she said.

“What I always do: Self-destructive and flamboyant things to my hair. I’m going to cut it all off and bleach it back to my naturally unnatural shade of blonde,” I said.

Lee, a former hairdresser whose religion regarding hair is length, thought a moment before giving her reluctant blessing. “I think it’s a good idea,” she finally said. “All this bullshit started to happen to you when you lost touch with your inner Uberblonde.”

The Uberblonde is my alter ego, who indeed fell by the wayside a few years back. The Uberblonde’s hair is a comedically unnatural shade of platinum blonde, and she’s an Unsinkable Molly Brown type who always bounces back. But a few years back, I stopped keeping faith with her and we parted ways.

I was trying to fit into the rest of the world as determined by other, more timid people, and I ended up toning my hair down to what I thought was a more respectable (read: employable, less conspicuous) color. And Lidaphonic’s right; that’s when life really hit the skids.

The Uberblonde isn’t shy. She writes her phone number in lipstick on napkins for attractive men; she thinks nothing of playing eight-ball in a short skirt and high heels. (The Uberblonde also weighed a lot less; she could pull it off.)

The Uberblonde isn’t afraid all the time. (Her life’s motto: “What the fuck, tomorrow’s another day.”) She always knows what to do. She has this compelling belief in her own talent, a clear vision of the future and a determination to make things happen.

In other words, she’s not a fucking pussy. Not at all that whipped, depressed person I’ve been inhabiting for the past two years.

Well, today I invited the Uberblonde back into my life. I took the $6.99 I probably couldn’t spare, walked into the CVS and said to myself, “What the fuck, tomorrow’s another day.” I bought a box of suitably flamboyant color, stripped all the natural pigment from my hair and now a once-familiar person greets me when I look in the mirror.

Welcome back, Uber honey. I missed you.