By Scarlette Quille
I believe the universe is conspiring to transition me into my next decade. I have a birthday coming up in three or so months, and I have been planted firmly in denial for a few years now. I would prefer not to descend into a decade that firmly marks the passage of my youth. Although I have been floating through the last decade armed with denial and decent genetics, it seems that the universe would like to end my blissful passage through time by sending me reminders about what the next decade has to offer me, peppered with reminders about what I have left behind somewhere in my twenties. That’s not to mention the questions about whether or not I have found my destiny or true calling.
I first became aware of the universe’s conspiracy when I found myself to having spend an evening at the 219 with two women in their twenties. I have no issue spending time with people outside my age group. The young and old have many lessons to teach if you take the time to observe. These lessons are far more pleasant when revealed to you while you are grooving to that kick ass band that plays at 219, often. You know the one with the bearded guy with the sexy raspy voice? Don’t get too excited though. I heard he has a girlfriend, and she’s crazy… Anywho, I digress.
Spending time with people in their twenties is always dicey. On one hand you can’t help but be jealous of their youthful vigor, lack of fiscal responsibility, and perky assets. On the other hand, you can’t help but feel sorry for their blissful ignorance, as the typical 20-something is still hanging on to the belief that marriage is a positive outcome of a relationship.
My time with the young blondes was just the beginning of my own Charles Dickens novel. This was the chapter where I was to come face-to-face with the Ghost of Blondes Past. I found myself in the middle of an awkward situational teeter-totter where I was telling one of the 20-something blondes to live a little, hang out, enjoy life and have a drink—you have the rest of your life to water your garden. Then I turned to the next young blonde and told her to be safe, to use a more calculated approach to searching for a man friend. I found myself confused on whether to guide them or kill them when they said things like, “I hope I am as hot as you when I’m old.”
In your twenties, life is mostly about balancing things like watering gardens and choosing the right amount of tequila shots before jumping on the back of a Harley and riding helmetless into the night. It’s not an easy world to navigate. Killing them would have been like killing myself 15 years ago, and I don’t want to start a butterfly effect. Educating them was the only path that didn’t involve violence or a massive hangover.
I felt like the old medicine blonde in the village, the one charged with responsibility of providing guidance around the spiritual side of bar-hopping. The one that had to teach younger blondes how to use their “gifts”. The Ghost of Blondes Past made a visit to show me that I have reached a certain age and my place in the village has changed. It is time that I started paying back the blonde community for the many nights an elder blonde had to care for and advise me. I could chose to pretend to be 20 or embrace a new role in the village. As painful as the truth is, it’s not cute to pretend like you’re 20, ever. It’s not cute when you’re 16, and it becomes more hideous with every passing decade. You get to be 20 for 10 years, and that’s it. I am OK with the role of advisor, there are some moments in life that are much better to experience as an observer. I’m not sure why it was necessary to send two of them, but whatever, I’m not in charge of my own awakening? Right?
The Ghost of Blondes Future’s visit was more subtle. I play softball in women’s league. There is a feisty older lady that is still a baller. She is not joking around. I don’t like to pin ages on people, but I know for a fact she’s over 60 and regularly kicks the asses of women half her age. Kicking ass at sports in your 60s is way sweeter than being good in your twenties. I find myself critiquing my every mistake after a softball game, furious that I pulled a quad rounding second base trying to turn a double into a triple. Seriously, I thought about it all night. I’m not as fast as I was in high school? And I am just realizing this like 20 years later? I considered making this my final season of softball, and then I saw my feisty 60-year-old competition. She wasn’t crying over a double—she doesn’t give a shit. She is just happy to play, and she knows that having the courage to ball with younger athletes is a far more admirable pursuit than any triple she may have hit 20 years ago. I hear you Ghost of Blondes Future, I can choose to continue kicking ass well into my golden years. Or I can choose to live a life full of ceramic animal figurines and various animal print sweatshirts. It all depends on where your heart is at.
My mother balances her responsibilities as a blonde mentor perfectly. She has a milestone decade birthday this month (I will not state the decade as stating another blonde’s age is expressly forbidden in our tribe). A blonde under her tutelage knows better than to be caught out in public without mascara, that you never let your roots go and that crop tops paired with leggings are for babies. She also preaches about the dangers of people who tell a blonde to go to the “dark side”. Basically, anyone telling you that you would look good as a brunette is a jealous, hateful creature with one goal in mind: eradicating the world of platinum goddesses. It doesn’t matter if your hair is “naturally” a different color. If you identify as a blonde and have the discipline to keep it up, you are one of us.
My mother will always be my most influential blonde mentor. Her skillset is complex and impressive. Even as a grandmother, my mother can chug a beer, tell a joke and make a pie (simultaneously). She is the queen mother of blondes in this area. Ask anyone.
I will never take her throne. It’s not my path. The lessons of cooking and domesticity were lost on me as a young child. I picked up more quickly on lessons involving alcohol consumption and alternative spiritual activities such as skinny dipping. It wasn’t for lack of her trying. I just chose many different paths. Thankfully, none of them involved alternative hair colors that would have led to my exile.
My alternative free spirit nature makes following the most basic rules difficult. I suppose that’s why it has taken ghost visitations and decades for me to find my role in the tribe. I could be reading too much into this, or losing my mind with age.
If Charles Dickens knew what he was talking about, one more ghost is left to visit me. Ghost of Blondes Present, where are you? Maybe she’s writing this column.
What I do know is that aging is inevitable, and spending time dreading it gives you wrinkles.
Enjoy your independence and chosen hair color.
It’s the Fourth of July, damn it. You have competitions to win, booze to drink and hearts to break!
Forever blonde in a world of gray,