I used to judge platinum blonde gays at first glance. Their cry for attention dangled in their bleached locks. I feigned a smile when they joked about having more fun. I wished them well with whatever crisis they were going through and carried on with my day.
Secretly, my shade came from jealousy. I didn’t want to get the male equivalent of bangs. The look seemed like it either worked or didn’t, and you get judged either way. But how badly I wanted to change my life with a new hairdo.
This is what appearances presented for me—a chance to grab who I was by the balls, if only outwardly.
The first thing I wanted to do when I stepped out of the closet was tobuy new clothes. I stormed outlets like Saks Off Fifth and Nordstrom Rack like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I was finally able to pay the emotional price of being myself.
But the effort I put into my appearance throughout my early 20s was more than my identity. On days when I felt like an utter failure, hungover, or often both, I’d wear a killer outfit with sunglasses – looking so put together helped me regain control. I spent so much time in front of the mirror hoping it could shift the gears of my life.
As pathetic as it sounds, I legitimately thought my looks were my power. A lifetime in the closet stripped me of a fully functioning adult personality. I grasped at maximizing what God gave me as if it could be currency for a lackluster existence. Of course, I was still young and stupid, so I believed my facade by merely stepping into it.
I acted like a sluggish career could be canceled out by being muscular or a failing romance didn’t matter because I got a spray tan. My looks were a crutch for thinking my life was moving forward. I eventually moved into tattoos and piercings as a means to cope with my mediocre life. But I was gay, ungrateful, and vain – not a rebel – so I got tattooed on areas covered by clothing and only put holes in my ears.
Still, I felt a sense of relief. I was changing – for the better.
Inevitably… I faced the reality that I wanted to dye my hair. I had to hate on several blonde gays to realize I actually desired to join them. But the decision put me at a standstill because the platinum train had left celebrity hunks like Adam Levine and Zac Efron and arrived at a full circle final destination: Gays in crisis. The trend started with queer joy, so it made sense it ended in shambles.
Former Buzzfeed journalist David Mack went method to try and answer the obvious: ‘Why do gays in crisis bleach their hair blonde’? He outlines going blonde as a right of passage for queer people, specifically “naive white gays” reaching for the peroxide bottle when faced with a minor inconvenience.
Despite not identifying with this demographic, I had this same question from the perspective of a Latin gay who desperately buried any signs of crisis. My looks were supposed to represent my power, not my demise in real-time. I was too late for the bleach party.
Mack said it signaled a new era for him. He wanted to create some distance from the “lurking feelings of grief, depression, and concern about aging” with something as “simple yet radical as a hair change.”
He summarized my external dilemma: “I too could be hot and carefree. Like therapy, but cheaper!”
Bless Mack’s heart, the coloring of his dye job is one of the reasons I was so hesitant about going blonde. I had hair the color of a moonless night and knew orange could be a worst-case scenario. But as Mack said, “Going blonde felt like an opportunity to scorch both the earth and my scalp”
Who was I to judge any gay who wanted a rebirth? Gays dying their hair blonde was a relatively responsible choice to deal with crisis compared to straight counterparts who buy Ferraris they can’t afford or have affairs. Surely, there were more unhealthy ways to cope, as seen by the substance abuse that runs rampant in the LGBTQ+ community.
Ultimately, I caved at the possibility of rejuvenation. Kind of. I got platinum highlights. And it worked; I thought I looked better, so I felt better. I appeared more vibrant and noticeable, someone you were likelier to pick out from a crowd. Although I had freed myself from sleeping with women, I joined them in becoming enslaved to the male gaze.
In other words, I saw happiness in the mirror and hoped the reflection would stick to my bones.
Before I came out, I blamed all my misery on my inability to live my life authentically. I was certain if only I could be myself, then I would be happy. Lo and behold, I was shocked to discover “myself” wasn’t as jolly as I hoped. So, I clung to anything else that could fix my life rather than take accountability.
I grew up so preoccupied with my sexual identity that I never grappled with the demons that lurked within. I didn’t have a chance to explore my joy and purpose because I hid in pretense. Finding whimsical bandaids was easier than reaching for a more meaningful existence. Or admit I didn’t know what that looked like. Perhaps reexamining my relationship with alcohol. Asking for help.
The blonde eventually faded, and I kept changing my appearance until I learned real self-improvement – and fulfillment – couldn’t be worn. At least dying my hair manifested as the first step into accepting I, too, was a gay in crisis, or at least finally looked like one. And that’s OK. I should’ve known suffering in silence wouldn’t be any fun the second time around.
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