Blondes Have More... Booty Calls?

I am blonde. Yes, Clairol helps with the highlights a little (Feria 100, baby!), but, I promise you, underneath it all, I am a natural blonde. Always have been, always will be. I tried, just once, to go darker. I thought it would be fun to play at being an exotic brunette for awhile. But I couldn’t pull it off. It was a hair coloring disaster of epic proportions. (Green frizz. So not a good look on me.) Nope, no denying it, I am blonde.

Which isn’t always a good thing.

You see, being blonde has come to be associated with an entire personality type. Blondes are bubbly, not-too-bright, fun, flirty, generally have bigger boobs, and always own at least two string bikinis. We’re cheerleaders, hot nurses, and lifeguards who run up and down the beach all day in slow motion. We wear bright red lipstick, super high heels (okay, guilty as charged on that one), and giggle like middle-schoolers anytime a guy says anything slightly amusing. We prefer men twice out age with three times our own income, drive convertibles, all live in California, and are naturally tan from head to toe. We’re also incredibly easy. Give us a shot of schnapps and we’re putty in your hands. Something about this particular hair pigment sends waves to the brain instructing blondes to strip off their clothes at the slightest provocation.

Okay, you readers are smart enough know I’m totally being sarcastic here. But, sadly, not all men know that these are blonde myths, and not realities.

As I recently learned.

The other night I’m out with Mr. Big and I get a text on my phone. I glance down. Imagine my surprise when the Firefighter’s name pops up. (Remember him? Cute, sweet, hotter than a five alarm fire?) I quickly shove the phone into my purse, thinking it’s bad date form to check another guy’s text while out with Mr. Big. So, Big and I enjoy our movie, glass of wine, dessert, and I wait until I’m on my way home to check my message. It says, “Watching Goodnight and Good Luck. Though of you.” For you regular readers, you’ll remember that was the movie Firefighter and I watched together the last time we went out.

Kind sweet I guess that he thought of me. So, I text back. “How does it end?” ‘Cause, well, I fell asleep before finding out. (Seriously, George Clooney has one of the most soothing voices ever. Insomniacs take note.)

“U can still make the ending. Come over.”

Hmmm. Nice offer, but... It’s after midnight and I’ve just come from a fab evening with Big. So, I responded with a no, thanks. Not tonight.

So, he texts again. “It’s good. I promise.”

“No, it’s late.”

“But I haven’t seen you in so long.”

Yeah, no kidding. Though, as I recall, it was him who first let things taper off into never-never-gonna-call-you-land. So I shoot back, “Sorry, stranger, maybe another time.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Hold up. Brakes on.
I’m starting to think ‘movie’ may be guy code from something else. Exactly what was he thinking when he said the movie made him think of me? Maybe it wasn’t such a sweet thought after all. So, I text back a simple, “No”

“My bed wants you.”

Okay, at this point it’s clear he’s thinking I’m one of those blondes. And I’m honestly a little annoyed that he’d even contemplate booty calling me. First off – I’ve never been in his bed. Ever. Second – I haven’t talked to him in over a month. Third – I already said no, it’s now almost 1 am, and I’m tired.

So, I don’t respond. Instead, I get home, throw on a pair of pajamas, and crawl into bed.

And my phone goes off again.

“Worth the trip.”

Seriously? Is he begging? How hard up is this guy? Again, I don’t respond, hoping maybe he’ll get the hint and go away. And telling myself just what a good decision it was to ditch him for Big weeks ago.

I’m just drifting off to sleep when my phone chirps again. It’s him. Again.

“Can I sneak in2 ur house?”

Okay, that’s it. I’m way past annoyed. Now I’m pissed. I take my time, sending back a nice long text.

“Listen, pal. I am not your booty call girl. I don’t sneak. And the only bed I’ll be in belongs my boyfriend. And, in case you haven’t noticed, that isn’t you.”

A long pause. Then, “Good point, babe.”

I’m not sleepy at all anymore. Just fired up. “I know. And don’t call me babe. Goodnight.”

And that’s when I did turn off the phone. Sigh. How could I have been so wrong about Firefighter? Granted, I did move on quite happily to Mr. Big. But… still! The whole time we were dating he had me fooled into thinking he was nice guy looking for a nice girl. Turns out he’s a randy guy looking for a girl who loves “movies”.

One more thing about blondes... we’re apparently very gullible.

I’m contemplating a nice brunette wig for fall. What do you all think?


~Trigger Happy Halliday