Fake Blonde

Bleached till stiff.

My hair sticks directly upwards,

Like a soldier at attention.

I sometimes dye it colours.

That’s why I made it this way originally.

But now I can’t be bothered.

I wish people actually thought I was stupid,

like in those blonde jokes.

But usually, people just think I’m about to steal something.

Maybe it’s different for boys.

Or maybe it’s the nose ring.

You never know with oldies.

With my platinum crown,

I am the most stereotypical twink possible.

It’s great.

Until a preacher in the city catches sight of me.

He calls me a slur, then says he will pray for me.

Go ahead sir, I will be praying for me too.

It hasn’t worked so far,

But it can’t hurt to try.

My fingerprints are faint,

half melted by chemicals.

I like the burn from the bleach.

Kind of like menthol, but better.

And then I get to peal the skin off afterwards.

If I commit a crime, I won’t have to worry about gloves.

Gloves are for losers anyways.

My real name means golden hair.

Mine is more white really.

And I was born with dark reddish brown.

Maybe my childish halo made it look gold.

Sorry to disappoint, I guess.

But in the end, I’m the only one disappointed.

What did I expect?

I wish I could make my hair clear, like a polar bear’s.

It would also keep my head warm.

But I’d have to shave it in summer.

My head’s a weird shape though,

It would probably be ugly.

My self-esteem couldn’t take that.

It’s be better if I was a polar bear myself actually.

I’d live in a hole in the snow with all my little bear cubs.

We would eat fish every day.

How lovely.

I am the girl with the golden hair.

Except I’m not a girl.

And my hair isn’t actually golden.

We just went through this.

So actually, scratch that.

Sorry ABBA.

Maybe I’m the girl with the golden hair figuratively.

Like a metaphor.

Let’s just pretend that means something.

Fake blonde, like a teen-movie antagonist.

I am the cheerleader that calls you fat.

Just kidding, I don’t have the bone-density for cheerleading.

My legs would snap.

I also wouldn’t call you fat.

That would be, like, so mean.

I would never do that to you, bestie <3

Regina George wishes she was as blonde as me actually.

She told me herself.

She said, “how do you get your hair so light and even?”

It’s all luck.

It’s a miracle I have any hair left.

I’m always lucky.

Somehow everything always turns out ok in the end,

Even if I’m on the brink of death.

Maybe it’s not lucky then.

Because I have to experience being on the brink of death.

Maybe it’d have been better if I just died like I was supposed to.

It would be a good lesson for my next life.

In my next life I will also be fake blonde.

It’s true, a psychic told me.

He also said I was William Shakespeare in my previous life.

You can probably tell from my sweet writing skills.

Watch me do a kick-flip with my words.

Dolly Parton loves my hair.

She just told me on the phone.

We go way back.

Best friends in high school actually.

I’m still in grade twelve though,

She moved on.

She doesn’t mind that I stayed seventeen,

That’s why we’re friends, she accepts me no matter what.

Also, we’re both fake blondes.

Birds of a feather flock together, as they say.

My sister is also a fake blonde,

Her head looks like a sunny cloud.

I bleached it for her.

She really is the girl with the golden hair,

Ringlets like a cherub.

I’m glad we’re brother and sister.

My mum’s olive skin and black eyes look down at our pseudo-Nordic heads.

She laughs her pomegranate laugh.

"I love my little blondes,"

She says,

"But none of you look like my children."

We laugh our blonde laughs.

Our blood is still red like hers.

Our brown roots can still be seen,

Blooming at the top of our heads.

It will grow out and I will be my mother’s son again.

A spitting image.

I just wanted something new,

And so, I’m fake blonde like this,

For my youth.