I was recently given some cringe-worthy travel advice: dye your hair.
1) Never have I found blonde hair to be a problem when
travelling. (People I meet tend to overcompensate for the ‘dangers’ of me being
a female traveller, the result being I get a lot of help).
2) In Nicaragua, or anywhere else in the world, never will
I ever pass for Latina.
My initial reaction was pure self-righteous scorn. Then I
got thinking… how about if not standing out as much makes me look a little more
local? How about if I could pass for half
Spanish? How about if it gets me in touch with my ‘black swan’? And then the
cosmetic industry’s foundation: How about if changing my hair changes me?
And so I did it. I dyed my hair darker.
Later that day I got harassed by a group of fourteen year
olds in Bristol’s Victoria Park. After ‘can I have your number?’ failed to work
and I bent down beside my dog, I got the oh-so-romantic chat up line:
‘If I shit, will you pick it up?’
Gotta lurrve Brizzle. Surprisingly (I mean, come on, have
you seen this face?) that was the first time in a lifetime that I have received
any interest while walking the dog.
Then evening arrived and I went to my Spanish/English
language exchange. As I was talking to an Argentinian man, the light hit my
hair. ‘Wow, your hair is so blonde! Is it your natural colour?’ I tell him my
actual colour is in fact lighter. His heart visibly breaks. But by the time I
get home, I find his comments all over old photos of me on Facebook.
Conclusion: I guess I have to wait until I’m in Central
America for the real verdict. But for now, I think getting malaria tablets
should have ranked higher on my To Do list than dying my hair.
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