There’s just something about blonde women–something that seeps into their head when the peroxide does. As though egoism is an ingredient in the bleach that also seems to whitewash a “woman’s” perspective about her superiority over others with vaginas, particularly if the head above said vagina includes locks of brown. It’s a pervasive snobbery summed up best by Rhea Perlman as Mrs. Wormwood in Matilda when she tells Miss Honey (Embeth Davidtz), “You chose books, I chose looks”–as though being a brunette entails being incontrovertibly mousy and incapable of sex appeal. And, to be sure, raven-haired women (e.g. Monica Bellucci) are a different thing altogether–deemed the only class of dark-haired women that can be sexy without coming across as too “bookish.”
The stereotypes regarding brunette inferiority abound with the classic aphorisms of “gentlemen prefer blondes,” “blondes have more fun” and any light reading of Mein Kampf–further perpetuating the cultural notion that if only a “woman” would just dye her hair blonde she wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of such crippling undesirability, loneliness and occasional premature death. In fact, wouldn’t be such a pauper, constantly at risk of utter destitution from a lack of ability to finagle “male” financial backing. Maybe this is why the only blonde mogul you ever see is a “woman” that was originally brunette (Madonna comes to mind, naturally). And yet, it would seem that, for the most part, those blondes “aware” of their elevated sexual prowess in comparison to brunettes often chase down other thoughts like butterflies too often to remember their so-called preeminence. So when they make regularly condescending comments to you in passing that relate to the hue of your tresses, it’s only because they can’t remember that they’ve already made their feelings of transcendence abundantly clear–able only to retain such details as bra and waist size. But never, of course, that they would be just Hitler’s type.