Today, I am on a mission to find out if the old adage is true and blondes really do have more fun.
I can name a number of gorgeous brunettes — Angelina Jolie, Jessica Alba, Selena Gomez — and I’m proud to be on the brunette team. Yet, the truth is, I’ve always thought blondes get more attention. Men always seem to turn their heads when a blonde walks by, don’t they?
I was about to find out.
I visit Michael Suba, the owner of two Continental Hair locations, one on Avenue Road in Yorkville and one in Toronto Sunnybrook Regional Cancer Centre in North Toronto.
He specializes in “medical wigs” but says they are coming back in style as an accessory (He was around in the ’70s when everyone was wild for wigs). Suba has more than a thousand wigs on hand, made of the highest quality (i.e., real) hair.
The blonde wig I select sells for a whopping $2,900, and he says it is probably made up of hair from a half of dozen women.
But it’s not as easy as throwing on a wig and walking out of Continental Hair. As Suba says about a good wig, “The good wigs are never spotted.”
From left, Eckler checks out Michael Suba’s work in the salon, a young hipster checks out Eckler, and the red carpet awaits the divine Ms. E during film festival in Yorkville
I look at the wig, especially the scalp area, and it looks like a real scalp. A stylist helps put it on, after sewing clips into the inside cap, and then she fusses, giving the wig a trim and style. I’m now blonde.
What I notice immediately is that I actually like it. I feel good being a blonde. I’m not sure if it is because the wig looks so real, but I feel happier and lighter.
Before I leave Continental Hair, to see what life as a blonde is like, I ask Suba if he thinks men are more attracted to blondes.
“It’s funny. I married a blonde, but I’ve always been attracted to brunettes,” he says. And, for the record, he doesn’t think blondes have more fun. We shall see. He does say, “Hair should be fun. It’s like the new accessory, like a handbag or jewellery.”
I need to wear sunglasses, because my eyebrows are so dark and it did look odd, but there was no time to bleach my eyebrows. But it was during the film festival, and that just adds to the allure
. I should have rented a Ford Escalade; that would have completed the starlet package I was working on.
I decide to strut down Yorkville anyway.
I don’t even feel my new hair, it’s so natural. Even when the wind blows, I don’t feel the need to hold down my hair like I would a hat, and that surprises me.
I’m not sure if it’s the wig that I love that gives me confidence, and that’s what people notice, but people do crane their necks to have a look. Men do give me the googly eyes, and no I’m not bragging.
Maybe its because I’m paying more attention to random men than I do as a brunette? Uh oh.
What is also interesting is that other blonde women are checking me out (no, not in that way).
But it makes me wonder if blondes, like brunettes, have an unspoken bond? Sisters in platinum solidarity? I soon realize that blondes are checking out my hair, possibly to see what shade my hair is and if it looks as processed or as natural as theirs. They must be pondering that age-old question: Is she a real blonde? Sheesh, this is a competitive bunch.
I find myself really digging the blonde team. Not the looks (although that’s nice, too), but I really feel like a happier and less cynical person. Is it the wig or playing dress up? I’m not sure. But my step is lighter, I laugh more, and I can’t seem to get this smile off my face.
I have lunch on the patio at One where I can people watch, and I can see if people are watching me.
Again, I notice that people do that one-second-too-long look. But I’m enjoying it. (My lunch date is annoyed that people aren’t noticing him! Ha!)
Later I send a photo of my blonde self to a friend: who immediately writes back, “This is more real looking than I anticipated. Still, I laughed out loud to the point where I sprayed my computer screen with the contents of my mouth. But this is a quality freaking wig my friend. It looks real!” (She’s a brunette.)
Then I go to pick up my daughter at school, and the shock on her face is priceless.
“You look like Hannah Montana,” she gushes. (From a seven-year-old, I think that’s a compliment.)
Even the nanny is shocked. And, believe me, she’s seen it all.
When she sees me walk in, her jaw drops.
I come back downstairs after taking the wig off only to learn that she had thought I’d actually dyed my hair. It looked that authentic.
Before I go to a film festival cocktail party that night, I try on my little black dress that is my go-to party dress. It doesn’t look right.
I look more like a mourner and not a sexy brunette vixen.
At that moment, I miss my natural roots, which seem to match with dark clothes. As a blonde, I feel like I need to wear colour to match my new “sunny” disposition. I wear red.
I go to the party, but, truthfully, I’m tired and don’t feel all that fun, even as a blonde. And, I don’t think more men talk to me. But later, when my boyfriend comes over, and I put on a sexy little nightie and call myself “Candy,” we do have a lot of fun.
I blame my new sexed-up personality on being blonde. So, yes, blondes may have more fun, but maybe only if they’re brunettes just experimenting for a day.
(P.S. I didn’t hear one blonde joke all day!)