photo credit: x-ray delta one
photo credit: x-ray delta one
HERE'S AN ATTITUDE here in Scando country (Scandinavian, for you non-Midwesterners) that is, how shall I say, very blonde. Blond with an "e" on the end. Because much of the attitude resides in that "e," where blondeness and the feminine meet. I've been exposed to Scando-blondes for over 20 years, but, since you can't take Jersey out of the girl, I've never fully adapted to their nature. It's like a phone number you can't reach, or a neighborhood you can't find. And since I'm not keyed in, I get only general impressions, like wariness, thin lips, and a certain look. Get the Scando-Blonde Look, and you might as well call it a day.
The Galleria is an exclusive shopping mall in a Minneapolis, Minnesota suburb where a single item of clothing can cost more than my used car. For years I didn't even bother going in there, rife as it was with Scando-blondes, their money, and their progeny in high-tech strollers that beat out moon rovers for the most accessories.
Confidently, Scando-blonde wheels her mini-Scando into an exquisitely decorated shop, where she is often greeted by a Scando shop keeper. Knowingly they commiserate. Shortly, Scando-blonde exits with an $850 door knocker for a door located, doubtlessly, in that neighborhood I can't find. Meanwhile, squaring my Jersey shoulders, bravely I enter a card shop and purchase a designer birthday card guaranteed to be hand painted on Egyptian papyrus, and guaranteed to cost me $5.50 plus tax. Take that, door knocker blonde lady person.
This is the Working Girl Scando-blonde, so you'd think our common station would bond us in some real, if temporary, fashion. Therefore, if I bring in a document that needs an official stamp from my bank, and I need a copy of said document for my non-blonde records, is it unreasonable of me to expect that a teensy smile—albeit a professionally motivated teensy smile— might form on Bank Blonde's thin lips at some point in our transaction?
Yes, it turns out that my expectation is entirely unreasonable. Bank Blonde's tightly pressed and horizontal lips are an eloquent condemnation of the bank's scandalous policy of allowing non-blondes to hold accounts here. What were they thinking? she must be asking herself. Indeed.
Here we have Galleria Blonde merged with expensive German engineering. How scary is that? With mini-Scando snugly secured in its car seat, she is free to take the wheel of her Mercedes mammoth and lead it straight to within nanometers of the little people's bumpers in front of her.
Black is the preferred color: it sets off her hair nicely, and the hair of a Mercedes SUV Blonde is not just blonde: it is—gulp—blonde-on-blonde; a new wrinkle added by hair stylists to the blonde gestalt. I hardly know what to make of it, except to report that it emboldens the Mercedes SUV Blonde to dangerous magnitudes. Residential streets are her raceways, red lights are her accelerate signals, and worst of all, her Look penetrates both steel and tinted glass to quell even the most self-assured among the non-blondery.
Thus just a sampling of the Scando-blonde variations found in God's country. Once, I thought of moving back to New Jersey, it seemed so unlikely that I would ever acclimate. Then, I thought that with hair color being as popular as it is today, I could join in the blonde parade. But you know they'd spot me for a fake. "Where's your mini-Scando?" they'd demand. "Where's your Mercedes SUV? A used car?! Hah! Let me give you the Look."
It's hopeless.
© 2004 Kate Heidel
