Wingapo: Dreams & Disillusions

Today's #LetsBlogOff prompt:

What one thing did you really want when you were a kid?
...How do you think your childhood longing affects you as an adult?

When I was little, I really really really reeaalllyy wanted to have black hair. Like Pocahontas. (Click that. It's funny. And it explains the title of this post.) A tan would've been nice too. Also, I thought her arm band tattoo was the coolest thing ever.

Now, I realize that wanting these physical attributes might be seen as vain, and maybe that's a little bit true. I wanted to just not be another blonde white girl. It was so boring and common. There's enough of us out there already, and I really never understood why society thinks that everyone who isn't a blonde white girl should want to be one. It's not special if everybody's the same.

Which now reminds me of a later time in my life. (Fast-forward 13 years from my first infatuation with Pocahontas, which premiered in 1995.) I was oot and aboot windowshopping on my way to meet some friends for lunch when what should come around the corner? An entourage of identically-coiffed, identically-dressed, so-conformist-it-makes-baby-kittens-cry SHEeples. Yes. They were all platinum blonde - dyed and straightened flatter than my bad jokes - and wearing American Eagle jeans with Uggs. There were at least five of them. Five. How is it that in a group of five college-aged girls, not a single one of them had a stroke of originality to show for herself? Now, I know, we shouldn't judge by appearances. But give me a break. I bet underneath their black wool pea coats they were all wearing the same Abercrombie & Fitch fitted polo - perhaps with a little variation in color, to be fair.

I think I may have actually rolled my eyes. I just don't get it. Perhaps one of them was a natural platinum blonde - the rest had put their hair through Chernobyl-in-a-bottle - and I guarantee, not one of them naturally has hair that straight. No sir. That there 'do required at least 2 hours of pure torture to subjugate those poor strands into submission. If I were mean, I would've stopped right in front of them, looked up at the sky, held out my hand, and said, "Crikey. Left the 'brolly in the car!" Just to see the looks on their faces. See how much they would freak out about their precious hair that they obviously care so much about.

("Do I detect a note of bitterness?" you ask. No. I most certainly am not resentful of the fact that my hair absolutely refuses to listen to me and straightening it for 3-hot-uncomfortable-cramping-hours yields absolutely no long-lasting results so that I haven't even bothered to buy a new flat-iron for the last four years. No. Not bitter at all.)

I will admit, here, that I have dyed my hair in the past and probably will in the future. One time it was chestnuttish and another it was auburn. I haven't gone Pocahontas black because I'm afraid of the permanent damage it will do to my naturally lighter-toned follicles. Also, I'm afraid something of that chemical-strength will make me go bald altogether. My problem is not so much with girls dying their hair blonde, it's when they conform to the bird-brained notions of beauty so completely that their individuality and identity are no longer detectable. As in, a metal detector refitted to beep like crazy upon hovering over a snippet of originality remains completely silent when it is wafted over their graves.

Appearances aren't everything, but they sure count for a lot when you are projecting yourself out into the world as an individual. The world doesn't know you, and if you'd like to keep it that way, then by all means, buy yourself some L'Oréal Paris Féria #100 and knock yourself out. (Seriously. Don't let that stuff get near your breathing holes.) The world has seen thousands of you, and no one's going to stop you on the street and ask about your opinion on the global economy. I certainly won't. Because I'll be too busy working up the nerve to go get that tribal tat. Not really. (Because that's another thing I take issue with - tribal tattoos. Especially on white guys. I want to walk up to them and say, "Oh, how unique and original that inkwork you've got there. What tribe are you from?")

To see what others longed for in their childhood - and perhaps still are (as I still long to be Native American and able to talk to animals...in my heart, I mean...not like, legitimately...because that would be...so cool shutting up now) - see the table below.

And please don't make the baby kittens cry.