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Musings from Moyieboy ... |
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Blondes and blonds, smiling happily all
the way to the bank |
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October 28, 2017 |
By Ken Carpenter
I don’t know much more about blonds than anyone
else does, and most of what I know came from
movies and jokes. Like many other folks, I have
at times considered them to be of sub-par
intelligence. Then I got smart and decided they
have been getting a bum rap.
One thing I don’t understand about them is why
there are two spellings for blonde.
My hair is black and gray, not blacke and graye,
and most people have brown hair, not browne.
Blondes are special though, and I suspect many
of them will not hesitate to tell you so.
Blond hair dye outsells other colors by five to
one. That alone is enough to make a blond feel
like a horse of a different color.
That also brings up the question of whether
bottle blonds are the ones responsible for the
“blondes are dumb” myth. I have a suspicion
about that, but I’ll keep it to myself because
bottle blonds are very likely to be packing a
deadly bottle.
Blonds are more likely to be left-handed than
others, yet more proof that they are different.
Watch out for those left jabs.
While some inconclusive studies say that blonds
as a group are subject to more learning
disabilities, other surveys say that they are
more reliable employees because they do not get
rattled as easily as brunettes.
Internet dating services confirm that brunettes
only receive about four hits for every six a
blond gets. Redheads are somewhere in between.
Dating services also report that blonds are more
likely to have college degrees and are also more
likely to be employed in the legal profession.
Unless the fake blondes also skewed that survey,
unlikely in my opinion, my theory that blonds
are not dumb may have some merit.
Advertisers found out years ago that blond
models sell 5% more of whatever they are
plugging. More proof that blondes can dumb, or
smart, their way right up to the bank vault
door.
One nationwide poll shows that 76 percent of men
and 74 percent of women believe the first woman
elected president will be a brunette. Out of a
Clairol bottle probably, but only her
hairdresser will know for sure.
Supposedly 55 percent of the population agrees
with the old adage that blondes have more fun. I
suppose many of the rest of us believe that they
are just easily amused, but fun is fun.
Blond hair dye first hit the market in 1907,
thanks to a French chemist named Eugene Schuller,
but fake blonds had already been popular for
centuries. Wigs of the blonde persuasion were
commonly worn by ancient Roman women trying to
compete with all the yellow haired slaves
brought to Rome from conquered Germanic tribes.
Since Playboy magazine first hit the shelves in
1953, sporting Marilyn Monroe on the cover, 46
percent of all centerfolds have been blondes.
Their average age is 22, average weight 115 and
average height 5-foot-6. No wonder so many women
are either suspicious or jealous of blonds. Fake
or not, they are attention grabbers.
If you are at a cookout, sit next to a blond.
Mosquitoes love them like a kid loves candy and
will avoid the lowly brunette (or whatever)
sitting next to them. Unless every inch of the
blond is covered, then you are toast so go find
an undiscovered blond.
On a normal head of hair a blond will have
140,000 hairs, a brunette 110,000 and a redhead
90,000. If you want to know whether or not
someone is a natural blond and they refuse to
drop their pants, start counting the hairs on
their noggin and you will soon lose interest in
what they are. Until proven otherwise, a blond
is a blonde.
An Australian study has stated that blonds have
a higher pain threshold than females sporting
other hair colors. I don’t know what to make of
that, perhaps they would make good spies because
of their ability to endure torture. Maybe that
is why so many of them can laugh off a round of
blonde jokes, not only able to tolerate pain but
indignation.
All this talk about blonds is giving me a
headache, and my partially, well barely, (does
three hairs per square inch count?) black hair
tells the Aussies that I can’t deal with pain.
There probably aren’t any torturous Aussies
within a thousand miles though, so I feel
reasonably safe.
Mmmmmm, perhaps a quick dye job would cure the
problem!
Nah, I’m not looking for a date, mosquitoes
already seem to think I’m a blond in disguise,
and I’m not really model material.
Then again, I could always use a little more fun
in my life. |
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