Russian: The Perfect Shade of Blonde
Thanks to a generous client, I had in hand two tickets for box seats at the Pilot Pen Tennis Tournament in New Haven. This is an event I grew up attending as a pimply-faced and tennis-crazed teenager so I was beyond excited. Unfortunately, every single one of my friends and family who I’d normally invite to an event like this were each out of commission. It felt like some sort of conspiracy.
Husband? He was been working late all week on a project and I probably wouldn’t see him before midnight. Best girlfriend? Teaching a yoga class. Best tennis buddy? He had a date. Mom? Had plans. Dad-in-law? Scratched cornea. Rather than continue to go down the ladder of succession, because at this point I was getting awfully close my equivalent of the president’s post master general, I decided to fly solo.
As it turns out, I also had a hair cut/color appointment set for earlier in the day. And it was not exactly routine. You see, after more than eight months toying with various shades of brown, I decided to put an end to my unfortunate brunette experiment. I wanted my sunny blonde self back. And STAT.
Now ladies (and some gents), perhaps you already know this but when you walk into a salon and say, make me “blonde,” and then repeat it like a lunatic, “I’d like to be blonde, blonde, BLONDE!” people begin to take notice, and not necessarily in a good way. My request (read: wild-eyed demands) were met with a few uneasy half-smiles as they cooly regarded my instability and tightened their grip on their shears. Fast forward about ninety minutes and I stroll out of the salon looking a magnificent shade of what I refer to as “Russian Mail Order Bride” blonde. Don’t get me wrong, it looks fantastic. I love, LOVE my stylist, I was just a little, well, shocked. I don’t think I have ever been this shade of blonde since I was a toddler. But hey, you get what you ask for especially when you’re bat crap crazy with low blood sugar and amped on caffeine. So now armed with a full head of shockingly blonde hair, I hopped in my car to head to the Pilot Pen in New Haven.
It was a quiet first set with me, myself and my Pilot Pen over-priced cocktail to watch the women’s semifinal match unfold. I think a quarter of the stadium was on vacation, and it was their loss because there was some pretty darn good tennis being played. Caroline Wozniacki, the #2 ranked Danish phenom and the tournament’s defending champion stood slugging at one end of the baseline against her opponent, the equally talented Elena Dementieva. Dementieva, a Russian, has had a career-high ranking of third in the world and two Olympic gold medals to her name.
After the first set I texted a photographer friend to see if he could get me into greener pastures, aka, the press box. Yes, indeed, he could. So as I made my way down to the court to retrieve my pass, I found myself pausing in what had to be the best seats in the house, the front row courtside. Not one to pass what seemed to be a great opportunity, I exchanged greetings with my friend during the changeover, and figured, what the heck, I’d stay for a while and enjoy my swanky front row digs.
Meanwhile on the court, things were getting interesting as the players split sets and began a third set. Two well-matched athletes and several long points ensued. This was the kind of match that inspires and excites fans like me. Line call challenges, swearing in various languages, grunting and rabidly cheering fans. It was a variant of the latter that piqued my interest. Over my shoulder, strongly formed Russian sentences were being persistently hurled over my shoulder. There is something about the Russian language, sort of like German, where even if you ask someone if they would kindly pass, say, the sugar bowl, it always sounds more like a terse command more akin to an interrogation. Hmmm, but all this Russian. Was I in Brighton Beach?
Er, no. It seems my self-appointed seat was in fact directly in front of, if not smack dab in the middle of the Dementieva’s Russian family. I’m normally pretty quick but it wasn’t until I paired the screen shots of the middle-aged blonde woman on the ESPN screen flanking each end of the stadium to the in-sync clapping and remarkably similar-looking woman within inches of my newly blonde mane that I realized I landed in the family box. And it certainly accounted for Dementieva’s constant attention and strong stares in my general direction.
Scared isn’t exactly the right word or emotion to describe my trepidation. But clapping for any other purpose than to cheer Dementieva would have been unthinkable. And the only person with certainty who knew I didn’t belong there was me, and well, probably Dementieva. But then a funny thing happened. I was emboldened by the hue of my hair as I figured I fit right in with my new Russian family. Who wouldn’t know that I didn’t belong? Certainly not the five fans watching that night that may catch a sliver of my head on TV. (Hey, I love women’s tennis but I don’t think many people are watching it live on a Friday night.)
Game. Set. Match. Wozniacki won a nail biter of a three set match with a tie breaker in the third (and she went on to win her third Pilot Pen title in a row). Of course, I looked the appropriate amount of dissapointed as Dementieva shuffled off the court and her mother rushed after her. I may have even shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, playing the part my hair had written for me.
The next morning, after recounting the story in much greater detail to my patient husband I saw a text message from my friend. “Did you happen to be at a tennis tournament last night?” she inquired. Hmmm, yes, why do you ask? “My parents thought they saw you on TV.” Shut the front door. What?
I explained that I sort of snuck into a choice seat so I probably was in a camera shot or two with my new Russian family. “No,” she went on, “My parents said the camera panned to you like 15 times or more, I think they initially thought you were part of her extended family.”
Excellent. My blonde hair actually gave me Russian street cred. Well at least until I open my mouth and my Connecticut accent (if we have one) betrays me. I didn’t realize when I coined my new shade of blonde I was about to seal my fate. Rather than learn my lesson, there is one nagging thought that I just can’t seem to shake.
I wonder if I can pull this off this week in Flushing at the US Open?
