Did Elizabeth Kubler-Ross Ever Get Highlights?
Yesterday's Times had a gruesome article on a breed of women known as the New York Blondes, a "polished, pedigreed creature [who] can usually be spotted in her natural habitat, the Upper East Side, dropping off her offspring at the Episcopal School, scrutinizing embroidered 480-thread-count sheets at Pratesi and sipping drinks at La Goulue." By the third paragraph, we burst into tears. This, we thought, is will be the death of us all, the conspicuous consumption of bleach as a status symbol. We grieve not just for the Gray Lady, but for women everywhere:
1. Denial: Why is this article newsworthy? Didn't Bergdorf Blondes come out two years ago? Seriously, that poor reporter did not just spend that much time telling us about expensive hair. We're not really reading this; it's all a bad dream.
2. Anger: $500 for highlights from Rita Hazan is absolutely ludicrious. Who the fuck are these people? Their blonde manes should be chopped off and made into wigs for cancer kids. Then we could beat them over their bald heads with their Botkier bags.
3. Bargaining: OK, so maybe we don't have that kind of money, but surely we could come to some sort of agreement with these salons — we could, you know, give them a plug or something. Maybe some uber-stylist would take us on as a charity case. We'd be so much nicer to everyone if we could just get some face-framing champagne pieces.
4. Depression: You know what? Forget it. All of these high-maintenance bitches aren't our friends, and they never will be. We don't care what they do with their stupid money.
5. Acceptance: Our roots are a mess.
