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I’m sure you’ve heard about the blonde who got fired from the M&M factory by now. It’s an old oldie but a goody, and there are plenty more where that came from. Because you know ‘em, I know ‘em, and that sketchy-looking guy next to you on the bus knows ‘em. They’re blonde jokes, and any kid growing up would be lost without at least a couple in their repertoire, and many adults eventually collect dozens. And having both been a kid and now (though some might want to debate this) an adult, I am proud to disclose that I both know and have known a great deal of blonde jokes. I like jokes in general, to be honest, even (or especially) the stupid ones.

I collected blonde jokes as a kid for a couple reasons. For one, I was able to remember them with relative ease even though my academic stuff never seemed to stick. And I loved, then as now, to make people laugh. But perhaps why I chose to learn so many blonde jokes back then has to do with the fact that I am blonde. I’m a blonde who loves blonde jokes.

Over the course of my life so far I’ve had many people bend my ear for a joke, only to have it be a blonde joke. “No offense,” they’d tell me afterward, as though I felt as though these punchline simpletons could possibly be a reflection of my character. It’s true that I consider my hair color to be an important part of my identity, but knowing that I’m separated from the aforementioned joke-book morons by oceans of intelligence kept me from ever feeling the twinge of offense.

But lately, over the past few years, something rather unsettling has happened to me. My hair, formerly unmistakably blonde with natural highlights, has darkened. Overwhelmingly, my head is nearly covered by a mass of light brown bed-head curls, with blonde sections interwoven. And even some of the hair on my forearms is joining the party, replacing some of the thin, translucent wisps with bolder, more courageous strands.

And in all honesty, it kind of makes me sad. My blondeness was a part of my physical self that I actually treasured. It was one of those cards I was dealt that I never dreamed of trading in. But as in some games we play, occasionally an opposing player gets to pick from our hand, and I lost my beloved Blonde Card. And it was swapped for a Light Brown Card. It was my Old Maid.

And sometimes I still mourn the loss of my blondeness, but I came to a very important conclusion a while back: I can still be blonde

That’s right. I can still be blonde. Because as stupid and obvious as it sounds, physical traits aren’t who we are. But we think they are sometimes. We get so caught up in how our physical traits make us appear to the outside world that sometimes we forget who we’re trying to impress. People do all sorts of things to make sure they’re perceived the way they see themselves: they put on makeup, they do their hair, they dress to either hide or accentuate, they change the way they relate to people, and sometimes even physically alter their bodies. And it’s very true that many people do these things for themselves in order to feel more comfortable and confident, but I would be remiss if I asserted that all people behave that way.

Of course I’m guilty of many of those things, too. Why wouldn’t I be? I groom and dress in ways to present myself in the way I’d like to be perceived, I alter my mannerisms, vocabulary, even the sound of my voice depending on the situation, and I behave altogether differently when I feel I must.

But my hair… my poor blonde hair.

And it got to the point that I almost dyed it a month ago. For the first time ever, I seriously considered dying my hair. And it was the day before I was going to highlight it with a friend that I decided I couldn’t. I couldn’t dye my hair. Because when I was blonde, I was BLONDE. It was real. It was just how it was. But to deliberately change my hair when it (so sentiently, it seemed) changed from blonde to light brown would go against everything I stood for as far as follicular integrity goes. And I had to simply accept that my hair was no longer the spun-gold playground that it had once been.

And I didn’t dye it. Because as far as I was concerned (with my hair, that is), part of the reason why I loved my hair was because it happened naturally. And now it’s darkening naturally. And I’m gradually becoming OK with that. I can alter other parts of myself to appear the way I want to, but my hair was never something I wanted for other people. I liked it for myself. And just like changing outwardly out of a desire to please oneself of others never changes what’s internal, becoming more brunette to the world doesn’t make me any less of a blonde to myself.

And c’mon, let’s face it. If Michael Jackson could still be classified as “black” in the end, then I don’t see why I can’t identify as being blonde. At least my transition happened by itself.