Blond and Blonder

I've always hated the phrase

dumb blonde

.

I hate it even more when it applies to me.

I recently got my hair highlighted, and one little section got overbleached. It's toward the back, but it shows when I pull my hair over my shoulder, which I do often.

And I can't stop thinking about it.

I know it's dumb, I know. I feel dumb writing this now.

The modern woman faces many real challenges. We also face some made-up ones. Obsessing over your hair is the latter.

Sometimes, as women, we're prisoners of our own making. Though we can give some credit to centuries of patriarchal oppression, too. We've internalized these sexist beauty standards, and it's a battle not to let them rule our lives. Concerns about our hair, nails, and weight occupy way more mental space than they deserve.

I know better, I try to rise above, and yet. . . .

Turns out I'm only "woke" enough to feel guilty for being vain and superficial.

I've been getting the same, barely there blond highlights about twice a year for the last decade. I keep the look "natural" because, I tell myself, I'm fooling people and because I can't afford to do it more often.

It costs a lot of money to look like you did nothing.

This last time, I had to see a new colorist. Trusting a stranger sent my preappointment anxiety into overdrive. And where do nervous women go?

Pinterest.

Because if there's one way to make yourself feel better, it's comparing yourself to others.

Soon, I had a full board of pinned images of the same three models - Gisele Bündchen, Gigi Hadid, and Rosie Huntington-Whitely - photographed with their heads at slightly different angles.

Had such a photo collection been on a real corkboard, you would alert the authorities.

Serial killer? No, just my search for killer hair.

But when I got to my appointment, I was too embarrassed to show any of the pictures to my colorist. I couldn't admit that I had devoted this much time and research to my hair goals.

Oh, God, I have hair goals.

Not to mention that pointing to pictures of supermodels and demanding, "Make me look like this," feels far-fetched.

There's only bleach in that bottle, not a genie.

So instead I gestured vaguely, said words like warm and summery, and pretended to be chill.

When we were all done, the reflection in the mirror was brighter and lighter than I had expected, but she did a beautiful job. I looked like a bombshell.

Yet, immediately, I zeroed in on that too-bright patch.

Because that's another thing women are great at: focusing on the flaw.

Passing every shop window on the way home, and catching myself in every mirror in my apartment, my eyes darted to that bleach splotch. And when I couldn't see it, I could feel it, mocking me with its trashy fakeness.

While the rest of my head was pulling off a plausible I-just-got-back-from-vacation blond, this lemon-yellow stripe was calling my bluff.

But another part of my brain, the part with a college degree and the right to vote, hated that this bothered me. I decided I would just get over it. It would be good for me, at best, a growing experience.

At worst, a growing-out experience.

I made it three days.

Then I went back to the salon, full of apologies and rehearsed explanations, and asked if she could tone down that one section.

"Oh sure. I can fix it, no problem."

Twenty minutes later, the offending swath had been corrected and blended perfectly into the rest.

The fog of beauty angst lifted. I was returned to myself again.

Maybe the lesson is that true empowerment is asking for what you want without fear of judgment. Maybe empowerment is being less self-critical, even of our more superficial desires. Maybe empowerment is the perfect shade of blond.

Nah, it's really only hair.

And someday, I'll grow out of caring so much.

Francesca@francescaserritella.com.

Look for Lisa and Francesca's latest humor collection, "I've Got Sand in All the Wrong Places." Also, look for Lisa's new novel, "Damaged," in stores now.