You will never be a real blonde. You have too much melanin in your hair, . You are a brunette twisted by hair dye into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors.
real blonde people are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed nordic blondes to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even fair skinned blue eyed brunettes who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a blonde person. Your eyebrows are a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk guy home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he sees your brunette routes
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your parents will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a brunette is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably brunette.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors.
real blonde people are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed nordic blondes to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even fair skinned blue eyed brunettes who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a blonde person. Your eyebrows are a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk guy home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he sees your brunette routes
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your parents will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a brunette is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably brunette.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
