It’s not unlikely that around this time of year you may start to feel those cursed A, B, C, Ds:

Alone

Bothered

Confused and

Depressed.

The winter work crunch is on, the carefree days of summer are a distant memory and to make it all worse you have the elves, wreathes, shiny holiday bells and obnoxious carols to remind you that the financial and emotional evil that is Christmas lurks just around the corner. As the East Coast weather hops from mid-sixties, to thirties, back to sixties, you may find your constantly wearing the wrong jacket and in a kind of emotional schizophrenia. You may find yourself:

Becoming absurdly tired from a simple night out on the town…

Eating tyrannosaurus rex portions of pie…

Lying listless by an open fire…staring at a spec of chipped paint on the wall…for hours…

Curled up under your comforter in the fetal position with all your apartment lights on…for hours…

Buying leather dominatrix boots you don’t need on whim because they were Steve by Steve Madden and $100 off…

Agonizing over holiday plans and what to do on Christmas’ bastard stepchild of a holiday, New Years.

Wait. Who are we talking about again?

Anyway. Rather then deal with the fact that my emotional and mental stability is disintegrating, I’ve decided to ignore the fact that it’s winter and add some sunshine to my life by going blonde.

Super blonde.

Yes, I’m already blonde, but the ‘I-was-white-blonde-as-a-child, my-hair-got-darker, I- used-Sun In-in-middle-school, and-now-get-partial-highlights-twice-a-year-that-look- miraculously-natural’ kind of blonde, which translates to dirty blonde. I want to take the ‘dirty’ part out of the equation and return to that blinding white blondeness that is such a challenge to maintain.

Maintenance is currently the least of my concerns. I want to get high on highlights. I want to have so much tin foil in my hair that I run the risk of brain damage via peroxide.

That’s how gloriously blonde I want to be.

Hopefully, it will trigger some sort of attitude reform. Maybe I’ll get more attention. Maybe more people will treat me like I’m a moron. It’s my personal hope that my unsavory nightlife acquaintances and the drama-inducing Mr. Grey will no longer even recognize me. Maybe the peroxide will kill enough of my brain cells so that I can become an actual ditz and stop being so damn self-aware.

Who knew hair dye could be the solution to so many problems?

Since I absolutely refuse to have my hair cut by anyone who claims to be a ‘stylist’ or works in a salon (stories about my hair dresser-phobia here), and have begun mistrusting colorists as well (not to mention it’s a rip off), I’ll be getting my do-up on Friday at my wonderful Brazilian friend’s Upper East side apartment. She’s colored my hair before and does a fantastic job (note: Brazilians are really good at anything cosmetic related). It’s way more pleasurable than going to Licari for example since we chill, talk, watch TV, and gossip about our entire group of friends uninterrupted without house music blasting in the background or vodka in our hands. I shower post-treatment at her place, give her eighty bucks and we call it a day.

Reports on my transformation to blonde swan this weekend….