“There are blonde and blondes and it is almost a joke word nowadays. All blondes have their points, except perhaps the metallic ones who are as blonde as a Zulu under the bleach and as to disposition as soft as a sidewalk. There is the small cute blonde who cheeps and twitters, and the big statuesque blonde who straight-arms you with an ice-blue glare. There is the blonde who gives you the up-from-under look and smells lovely and shimmers and hangs on your arm and is always very, very tired when you take her home. She makes that helpless gesture and has that goddamned headache and you would like to slug her except that you found about the headache before you invested too much time and money and hope in her.” —Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye
There is only one type of blonde and his eyebrows are as fair as his thinning hair, pink scalp showing underneath the gelled spikes and a red ruddy face that turns purple like a sky before a storm.
There is only one type of blonde, he has white-gold hair on his knuckles and fingernails he tears off instead of clipping, blunt fingers that shove mutely through delicate tissue. He touches your face in speculation when it leaks, like you’re a problem to solve, to dam or seal or tighten or replace.
There is only one type of blonde, the type that takes off his shoes with a grunt then sifts talcum powder into their pungent depths.
There is only one type of blonde, the type who conquers continents, the type who closes his eyes after the evening’s final thrust and dreams of prowed ships sailing jet black waters and coffee-colored women on green shores he can rechristen in his father’s name.
There is only one type of blonde, and he is talking over you now, his words trampling yours.
There is only one type of blonde, and you will see his face stamped on your blonde babies. You will inherit a clan of blondes and learn to read the furrowed brows of your father-in-law, your husband, your sons. You will learn to dread the moment when their faces turn from red to purple.
There is only one type of blonde, the one life gives you. He might become a connoisseur of the fairer sex, pinning specimens by their pretty wings to a corkboard behind glass, but the reverse will never ring true. There is only one type of blonde, and he is waiting now for you to cook his dinner.