A few months ago, I traded my natural, burnt-butter shade of blonde for "it's fake and I know it" platinum. "The world will fall in love with you," my stylist cooed, and initially, against all odds, it came to pass.
Men whistled from car windows, park benches and, in one memorable instance, an organic vegetable stand.
My husband proposed a trip to the lingerie store. My best friend accused me of using Botox - then demanded my doctor's phone number.
I was feeling pretty good until an elderly woman I'm fond of fixed me with a cold, flinty eye and said, "Good Lord, you've gone glamorous."