The Blonde deception
Being blond is, on balance, a blessing. If I wasn’t blonde I might even dye my hair.
People underestimate me. Their starting assumption is that I am nice and will probably agree with whatever it is they put to me because I either won’t quite grasp what they are getting at but am just bright enough not to admit it, or because I don’t have it in me to disagree with anyone. Especially not them. I relish the endless opportunities to win one over on them. Just the other day a colleague who had not known me very well before he saw me in action told me of his surprise to find I really was not fluffy. He seemed impressed.
I can switch on the blond moment to avoid situations where I truly am out of my depth, such as negotiating a good deal on a new car – so a man’s world. I totally go blond and let my husband do the talking. Or to get someone else to do things I’d really rather not: helpless charm.
I get to cross the road without stopping in Mediterranean countries. Even most women drivers stop as long as I don’t make eye contact with them.
Nobody can tell whether I am starting to go grey or not.
I don’t tend to get selected for random checks at airports.
The drawback? Get in a lift in China and you really, really stick out like a sore thumb. At least I can flash a universally vacant blond smile and disarm them.