Samara O'Shea

Blondes (Theoretically) Have More Fun

During my great computer clean up of this past weekend, I came across some photos of myself as a blonde. Between the ages of 18 and 26, I changed my hair color pretty much every year. When I was 25 I went platinum blonde, and it destroyed my hair. My once soft tresses felt like overcooked angel-hair pasta. I left my hair Harlow blonde for a while, since the damage had already been done. At the age of 27 I went brunette and have been that way ever since.

What’s my natural color? I was born with a full head of dark brown hair. Then it all fell out and turned blonde—naturally platinum. As I got older it got darker. I suppose these days brunette is my natural color, but if feels strange to say that.

If I’m up for changing to a crazy color again, it’ll be red. Blonde is fun, but no funner than any other color. (I find the fun is in the willingness to whimsically change colors). Plus Blonde is too hard on the hair—unless you can afford top-notch care, like Gwen Stefani and Lady Gaga.

In any case, this was a nice trip down goldie-locks lane.

I can stomach the platinum pics of myself in black and white. In color, all I see is super light hair contrasted with super dark eyebrows.

I love this photo and am so glad I found it. I’m small and Central Park is big and majestic.

This is an especially embarrassing piece of ephemera. It’s my comp card from my attempt to be a model at the age of 19. These were the golden-hair days. The top two photos are hideous and make me cringe at the thought of my trying to be a model. The bottom left isn’t bad, and the bottom right is good. Once again, black and white works its magic. I’m realizing now that three of these photos (not including the top right) were also taken in Central Park—a lifetime before the one above it.