I am flaxen-haired. Well… at least I used to be (<-click). I spent years, and a shitload of moolah, making sure it remained some version of blonde. Blonde, blonder, BLONDEST; a condition that all dyed in the wool, flaxen-haired, card carrying almost blondies are afflicted with.
Furthermore, when my boobs kicked in at seventeen and remained obvious throughout my show biz years – it was a bit of a conundrum. Dolly Parton sized they were not, but in some circles (concert dance) might as well have been.
When it came to costumes – the concert dance world did not look favorably on those of us displaying ample-ish bazooms. In my case, wardrobe tended to be more of a camouflage situation. That spaghetti strap dress? Fuggedaboutit! That gorgeous backless leotard? Don’t even think about it. What’s a girl to do? Apparently – get over it.
The musical theatre world was different, as in, breasts were bolstered and appreciated. Hallelujah!
As a blonde-haired, happy, perkier breasted performer, one is more often than not typecast. People make assumptions. And throughout my concert dance career, that certainly proved to be true.
I was often made to feel like I couldn’t possibly be a true artist. Why the hell not? Was it because I was not filled with angst and self-loathing? Or was it due to the fact that a dark cloud was not perpetually suspended above my head?
By the way – with regard to that cloud reference – my head was not in the clouds, either.
At least not all the time.
If only those higher-ups were more interested in my passionate and compassionate qualities, my ambitious and intuitive depth. If only. I admit to being a happy human and oftentimes filled with joy. That’s a bad thing?
Could they have looked past the straw-colored strands and cleavage to see what I was capable of? To allow me to grow as an artist based on dedication and desire – not judgment and marginalization. Should I have vocalized my aspirations? Demanded? Coerced? Advocated? Pretty, pretty pleased? How about… just ASKed?
At the time, I didn’t think I had any say in my trajectory. And to be honest, I probably didn’t.
Was I entertaining? I have heard. And, yes, I could be silly. C’mon silly is highly underrated. But superficial? I was/am not. I have great depth of emotion to offer.
Just ask me.
Nevertheless, I’m quite aware that the so-called serious roles were not meant for me.
According to some.
There could have been someone who recognized the expanse of my ability, the richness of my movement and my inherent capacity to dig deep… whether being clever or thought-provoking. Where were they?
Helloooo…
Ergo, I continued to be the funny one. The comical dancer. The entertaining one. What choice did I have? But guess what? People tell me those charming and delightful bits were as captivating and thrilling and enduring as anything brooding someone else might have delivered.
Don’t get me wrong – I loved being those things. It’s just sometimes I yearned for a slight detour.
Or perhaps it’s just the idea that calling oneself an artist seemed to only be reserved for the esoteric, cerebral, bereft-of-décolletage types.
In the meantime…
… all you boobed blondies out there – I see you, I hear you, I support you and all you want to be. Also, advocate. No “pretty, pretty please with sugar on top”, no offering of “I’ll be your best friend forever”, and certainly no “I am begging you on my hands and knees”.
You might not get the answer you were hoping for, but no one is a mind reader… as much as we wish they were.
Just ask.
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